


to be or not to be

by ghostofgatsby



Series: I'd kill for you. I'd die for you. I'd live for you. [18]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Arguing, Blood, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fae & Fairies, Fae manipulation, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, Knives, M/M, Multi, Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5375114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith has to wonder- was he only destined to repeat the same mistakes? Was that all he was, a repetition of his failures?<br/>Life slipped through his hands like grains of sand, and Smith felt powerless to stop it.<br/>When was he ever anything different than the river, and the death that ran through it as surely as the blood in his veins?<br/>He used to be so sure in himself and what he was, but now he isn’t sure of anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to sleep, perchance to dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished this sooner than expected. Despite wanting to finish Trott's backstory before this, it feels like now is the time to post it. I have slightly conflicting feelings about it, but it was either now or January, and I can't wait that long lol.  
> So...here we go.
> 
> Tagging ahead of time, because this is a heavy fic. This one's a bit different and hits closer to home. As always, let me know if I need to tag anything else.
> 
> specific cws, present in every chapter: depression, low self-esteem, self-hate, insults, hurtful comments, hopelessness, worthlessness, self doubt, destructive actions
> 
> Please go read/do/watch something fun after this, because, jeeze. It’s rough.  
> If you skip this one because of what it’s about, I completely understand. I have a hard time reading these kinds of fics too, and I wrote this one.  
> There’s no attempt of anything, but Smith puts himself in a few dangerous situations. This is Smith at his lowest. And this fic hurts.  
> Stuff like this is never easy, but it’s not forever, either.
> 
> all cws for fic in total, that aren’t the ones previously listed: arguing/fighting, knives, blood, death, murder, drowning, fae manipulation, suicidal thoughts/ideation, arson/fire
> 
> chp 1 cws: talk of drowning, death, and fae manipulation; mention of healing wounds; brief mention of alcohol, blood
> 
> want to reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/to-be-or-not-to-be-ghostofgatsby

When Smith steps out into the bright summer sunlight from the darkness of the movie theatre, he has only two things on his mind: a drink, and getting the fucking popcorn kernels out of his teeth.

"I swear, Ross, with all those shoddy special effects you'd think they'd make the ticket prices lower." Smith says, chewing the toothpick in his mouth and squinting in the direction of his parked car. The blinding sunlight glints off the hood and straight into his eyes.

"What do you expect from a generic spy movie?" Ross replies, smacking Smith's ass with the flat of his tail as he moves past him.

"Something actually worth watching, maybe? Not the shit-show we paid ten dollars each to see. And that's not even adding the cost of the popcorn and drinks!"

The heat of the day makes Smith groan as he trudges behind Ross through the parking lot. Getting fresh air was a welcome change, but not when the air was muggy as hell.

"How much salt did you put on your popcorn, Smith?" The gargoyle asks as they reach the car.

"Fuck off." Smith mumbles tiredly. He wipes the sweat from his brow and throws open the car door. His joints ache and his back is stiff from all the sitting he's been doing. He shouldn't feel like he has a desk job when in reality he's just been watching annoying Seinfeld re-runs for days.

Fuck, does he want to punch Kramer in the face. And if he hears one more joke about airline food...

Smith flops down into the driver's seat, starting the car and cranking up the A/C. He tilts his head back onto the headrest and closes his eyes. All he wants to do is curl up under the air conditioning unit in their apartment, but if he spends more than an hour there he's going to go insane. He's spent too long cooped up inside, letting the wound in his back heal. It's like he's been living in a box.

Ross settles into the seat beside him, the leather upholstery hissing and crinkling in the heat.

"Where to next?" Ross asks. His voice is lower in pitch than the sound of his seatbelt clicking into place.

Smith takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "Where do you want to go?"

"Arcade?"

Smith blinks his eyes open. He just wants to nap, preferably in a hammock with an ice cold rum and Coke. The kelpie looks at Ross tiredly.

Ross gives him a small smile. He’s been stuck inside the apartment with Smith all this time- he’s as eager as Smith is to get out and about.

"Alright, arcade it is." Smith sighs, lazily reaching for his seat belt. "And if their air conditioning isn't working, we're going to McDonalds whether you like it or not."

“Why McDonalds?”

“Large drinks, and I want a McFlurry.”

"That would mean I’d have to sit in the car, wouldn’t it?" Ross whines, folding his arms across his chest.

Smith rolls his eyes and shifts the gear stick from parking to first gear. "Not my fault you got yourself banned for getting stuck in the Play Place."  
  


* * *

  


Luckily for Ross, the air conditioning at the arcade is working. He and Smith walk along the lines of game machines, watching the spinning lights and taking in the cacophony of sound.

“Where do you want to start?” Smith asks, jingling the quarters cupped in his hands.

Ross stops in the center of the arcade, observing the disco lights spinning overhead. There are air hockey tables behind him and several Dance Dance Revolution stages ahead of him, but neither are much fun when your strength often breaks things.

“Let’s go find the pinball machines.” Ross decides, looking over at Smith. “If I remember right there’s a Star Wars one in the back corner.”

The kelpie scuffs his shoe on a carpet stain disinterestedly, before meeting Ross’ eyes and nodding. They walk ahead and to the left, past a row of shooting-gallery style and joystick-operated games. Right where Ross said it was, is the Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back pinball machine.

“Quarters?” Ross asks, eyes lit up with glee.

Smith counts out enough for three games and sets the stack of quarters on the edge of the pinball machine. The change wobbles precariously as Ross picks up fifty cents from the top. He pushes the quarters one at a time into the slot, and takes the time to listen to them fall.

As the machine lights up and John Williams’ Star Wars theme starts playing at full volume, Ross tests the buttons for the flippers. He fires the trigger for the plunger, and away the ball spins, knocking against buzzers and lights and racking up points.

Smith leans up against the wall to the side of the pinball machine. He watches the lights flicker across Ross’ face as he plays, neon colors making his eyes look like a kaleidoscope.

The gargoyle tracks the movement of the pinball rolling across the board, and his tail flicks back and forth with every click of the buttons on the sides. His face is impassive in concentration; all his attention is focused on keeping the ball rolling.

Smith pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his eyes for a moment. Fuck, is he tired. The nightmares were no longer a thing, but that didn’t mean sleep was coming any easier at night. He could fall asleep standing up, even with all the noise of the arcade games whirring and chiming away. The caffeine from the pop he’d drank earlier was starting to fizzle out, leaving him groggy and in a poor mood.

He pries his eyes open and watches Ross play for several minutes. Eventually he gets tired of standing and rolls his stiff shoulders back.

“‘m going to walk around for a bit. Maybe get a drink.” Smith tells Ross, moving past him in the direction of the concession stand by the door.

Ross grunts and continues playing.

There aren’t many people in the arcade, just a couple of kids being chaperoned by their grandma. A small group of college students are by the DDR machines, arguing over what song to play.

As Smith strolls along, he notices candy dispensers scattered here and there. Their contents include gumballs, jawbreakers, and other assorted candies. There are toy dispensers as well, with keychains and temporary tattoos. Smith thinks about getting a handful of Skittles or something to snack on, maybe a princess crown tattoo for Sips, but he wants a drink first.

He reaches the concessions at the front. The teenager in charge has a face full of acne. He gives Smith a shy smile as he fills his drink and takes his money in exchange for the service.

On the way back to Ross, something makes Smith stop and watch the college kids play DDR.

“Shake that ass, Mikey!” One of the girls yell.

The guy named Mikey laughs. He does, indeed, ‘shake that ass’. His Vans stomp the colored plates in time with the music. The speakers call out “Good!”, “Excellent!”, and “Fantastic!” in a male robotic voice.

Mikey’s crew cheers him on.

“Look at the multiplier! Holy shit, Mikey!”

Smith isn’t looking at Mikey’s feet, or the video screen. And why would he, when hips shake like that.

When the song finishes, Mikey dismounts the stage. He looks up and meets Smith’s eyes.

“Hi. Want to play?” He asks. There are dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.

Smith tries desperately not to use his charm. He reels it tight inside him and shakes his head.

“Alright...” Mikey chuckles awkwardly. The kids laugh, and one of the girls start arguing over song choices again.

Smith forces himself to turn away, and walks back to Ross with leaden feet.

He wants to turn around. He can hear the words echoing in his head.

_How about a dance battle? Loser gets to drown._

_How about you shake that ass for me somewhere else?_

The kelpie sucks in a breath between his teeth. He tastes blood in his mouth- he must have bitten his tongue.

 _Go on, you know you want to,_ The voices taunt him. _Just take them for a little drive, show them a little death..._

It feels like there’s something caught in his throat when he tries to swallow. Smith brings the lidless cup clutched in his hand to his mouth and realizes his hands are shaking. The ice is threatening to spill, and all he sees is water, water, water...

He throws the drink in the nearest trash bin and watches his pop spill onto the garbage inside.

 _You can’t._ Smith tells himself. _You can’t._

Ross is still playing the pinball machine. His score is far above the double digits he’d left him with and into the hundreds of thousands.

Smith comes to a standstill a few feet behind him. He tries to take deep breaths and can’t seem to get much air in his lungs.

The lust tugs at him, whispers in his ear.

_Come on, it’d be so easy. It’d be so, so easy..._

_Just get him on his own, go to your car, drive behind the building..._

His keys are in his hand before he realizes. Smith fumbles them in his grip and they fall to the stained carpet with a delicate clink.

_Pick up your keys, Smith._

_Go tell Mikey you changed your mind._

_Come on. You know you want to. You know you’d love to watch him shake as he drowns in your arms._

Smith tries to clear his throat and get Ross’ attention. His mouth is so dry, he can barely form words.

_It’d be so easy._

_Ross wouldn’t notice. No one would notice a thing._

_No one would even have to know..._

“Ross...” Smith croaks, voice cracking.

Ross’ tail stills in its movement. He looks over his shoulder at Smith and his eyes narrow.

“What’s wrong?” He abandons his game immediately at the look on Smith’s face and his body posture. The kelpie’s hands are clenched at his sides. His entire body frame is taught as a piano wire.

Ross sweeps the quarters off the edge of the pinball machine and into his palm. There’s a glint of silver in the carpet and his eyes are drawn downwards to Smith’s keys.

“Your keys...” Ross starts, watching the tension of Smith’s jaw as he grinds his teeth. “Do you want me to get those?”

Ross almost misses the barely perceptible nod of Smith’s head. He bends down, gaze locked with Smith’s, and picks up his keys.

Smith makes a choked off sound in the back of his throat. His knees are trembling.

Ross tucks Smith’s keys into his pocket with the rest of the quarters. He scans around for the nearest exit, noticing a sign just ahead of them.

He physically drags Smith out of the arcade, hand gripping his upper arm tight enough to bruise.

The minute they’re out and halfway to the car, Smith drops to his hands and knees.

“Smith?” Ross lets go immediately.

The kelpie groans. He feels lightheaded and dizzy, and the sudden heat doesn’t help. He gulps in the humid air like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Ross’ fingers brush his sweat dampened forehead. “You’re burning up.” The gargoyle frowns.

Smith closes his eyes to stop the world from spinning. “Fuck...” He whispers. “I feel like I’m going to pass out.” His hands are shaking. He swoons to the side and Ross catches his shoulder.

“Weren’t you going to get a drink or something? You might be dehydrated.”

_Dehydration. Sure._

_That’s one way of putting it._

Smith doesn’t even have the breath to laugh. He feels more than hears Ross start his car and turn on the air conditioning full blast.

“Do you want me to go get you something?” Ross asks, fingers brushing Smith’s cheek again. “You can cool off in here while I do that, right?”

“I think.”

“Up you go, then.”

Ross guides him into the driver's seat. Smith shudders as the cold air conditioning raises goosebumps on his arms and legs.

“I’ll be right back.” The gargoyle presses a kiss to his temple before the door is shut.

The silence of the car makes Smith tremble. He opens his eyes and turns on the radio. He flips through stations until he lands on some jazz.

Smith reclines his seat all the way back until he can stare up at the car ceiling.

There are water stains in the top.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the music instead. The peppy trumpets and the raucous drums. The music makes him think of Sips, which is better than other stations that make him think of parties or clubs. Right now, that doesn’t help.

In a few minutes, Ross returns with his drink. Smith can hear the ice sloshing around in the plastic cup.

“Here. Smith.”

Smith returns his seat to its normal angle and opens his eyes. Ross holds out the drink for him expectantly.

There’s a lid and a straw, this time.

Smith leans over the gearbox and takes a drink, smirking around the straw as he does so. The chill of the pop immediately soothes his thirst.

Ross sighs at his wordless refusal to take the cup from him. He shoves it in the cupholder the minute Smith pulls back.

“I’m not holding that up with my tail for you to drink while your driving.” The gargoyle remarks, settling back in his seat.

Smith smiles just the slightest. He starts to drive out of the arcade parking lot. His jaw clenches tight; his lips purse into a line. His knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“Where to next?” Ross asks carefully.

Smith doesn’t reply. He drives through the city, towards the big highways leading out into the countryside.

“...Smith?”

“I need to drive for awhile, Ross.” The kelpie murmurs. His eyes are trained only on the road.

“Okay.” Ross says quietly. He loops his tail around Smith’s waist. “Whatever you need.”  
  


* * *

  


It’s a few hours driving down the interstate before Smith finally relaxes. When he does, the tension dissipates in his arms and shoulders, and he rubs at his jaw with one hand.

Ross sits up from his nap when he hears Smith sigh loudly.

“Thanks.” The kelpie mutters, taking the closest off-ramp back towards the city.

“Of course.” Ross glances down at the empty cup between them and watches Smith as he drives. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Less terrible.” Smith replies. “But not completely.”

Ross extracts his tail from around Smith, sliding the flat end of the glass against him gently as he does. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Smith shakes his head. “Not tonight.” His eyes are far-away still, though the lights of the city get brighter and brighter in front of them.

“If you’re sure...” Ross hesitates. He brushes the back of his hand on Smith’s cheek. “Your temperature seems to be better, at least.”

Smith doesn’t say anything.  
  


* * *

  


He doesn’t sleep that night.

Instead, Smith watches the rise and fall of his court’s breathing patterns. He watches the shadows shift and change along the wall as night turns back to day.

He’s warm, with Trott curled into his side and Sips pressed against the other. The mortal king is snoring in his ear, and it doesn’t even bother him. It’s a familiar annoyance.

Ross is on Sips’ other side, still as a statue, with a peaceful look on his face.

Despite his court being so close, Smith can’t help but feel alone. He feels like he shouldn’t be in their bed. When did he deserve the right to sleep next to them? To lie so close?

It’s not that he doesn’t feel loved or welcome- it’s that he doesn’t think he should be.

Crickets chirp outside the window, and the sound makes Smith think of nights spent next to a riverbed. It had been decades since...It had been decades since he’d travelled the land alone, decades since meeting Trott and finding Ross, decades since they made this place their home. Nearly a decade since they’d crowned Sips their king.

So why does he feel like he did back then? Why does he feel so alone?

Trott shudders in his sleep and curls tighter around him. His face pushes hard into Smith’s chest, and Smith strokes the nape of Trott’s neck until the selkie relaxes into his arms again.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, hoping the words will quell Trott’s nightmares but knowing they won’t. Smith kisses the top of Trott’s head and looks away.

He knows if he lets go it will hurt Trott more than it will hurt him. And that’s the only reason that he stays in bed, wedged between him and Sips.

If moving wouldn’t wake them, Smith would get up. After that...he doesn’t know what he’d do or where he’d go.

Smith isn’t sure if he’d feel more alone if he left, or if he stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “to be or not to be”, the famous (and in my opinion, often overused) quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. the chapter titles also stem from Hamlet’s soliloquy in Act 3.  
> here’s a post with the soliloquy it its entirety: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/hamlets-soliloquy-from-act-3-scene-1
> 
> Whereas the last fic took place over a month or so, this takes place over longer. Probably two months during the early summer, I’m thinking. chapters 1-3 are over three days, but between 3 and 4, and 4 and 5, it’s been longer. A week or two between each, maybe? And more time than that between things in chapter 5. I don’t have a very specific timeline for this, but there you go.
> 
> Most chapters Mature, except for the last.  
> Forgive me for the ridiculous author's notes again. Can't help myself...lol
> 
> playlist for "to be or not to be", The Thousand Natural Shocks:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5ZDKsjtx240E1fjJaAhYnR
> 
> specific songs for this chapter:  
> All the Pretty Faces- The Killers  
> Alone and Sublime- Mother Mother  
> Don't Wait Up- Robert DeLong
> 
> full tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/the-thousand-natural-shocks-playlist
> 
> \---
> 
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129490662570  
> Smith outside  
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129663692885  
> Smith driving
> 
> a Star Wars pinball machine: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTbiHH37Lak
> 
> pinball/arcade machines:  
> http://garbagecourtfuzzies.tumblr.com/post/129050670174/i5x-arcade-posted-by-i5x  
> http://garbagecourtfuzzies.tumblr.com/post/129045478889  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/130538582709
> 
> http://extramadness.com/post/125094517163/i-was-afraid-of-my-own-thoughts-and-the-thoughts
> 
> http://anthony-samaniego.tumblr.com/post/128667311130/were-watching-all-the-street-lights-fade-and


	2. the respect that makes calamity of so long life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 2 cws: mentions of blood, death/murder, and drowning; knives, scars, fae manipulation, lust/predatory-like sexualization, arguing/fighting, throwing plates.
> 
> want to reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/to-be-or-not-to-be-ghostofgatsby
> 
> playlist for to be or not to be, The Thousand Natural Shocks:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5ZDKsjtx240E1fjJaAhYnR
> 
> full tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/the-thousand-natural-shocks-playlist

“Do you need any business clothes washed for tomorrow, Sips?” Trott asks, setting down a full laundry basket with a groan.

Sips shakes his head as he does the crossword from Friday’s paper. “Nah. Do you know another name for ‘sad sack’? Five letters.”

Trott snorts. “Saggy?”

“Starts with ‘L’,Trott.”

“Loose?” Trott cackles, leaning over the back of the couch to look over Sips’ shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“Sips.”

“What?” Sips asks, not thinking until Trott laughs harder. “Now wait a minute, no! I do not have a saggy sack. I’m not _that_ old. Plus it’s a five letter word!”

The selkie giggles. “Just put an underscore at the end.”

“There are no _underscores_ in _crosswords_ , Trott.” Sips groans. “Jeeze, my grandma would have griped the living hell out of you for suggesting that.” He flaps the newspaper in his hands and shakes his head. “Besides, _it starts with ‘L’._ ”

“Sorry.” Trott kisses his cheek. “You’re going to have to google that one.”

Sips sighs and takes out his phone defeatedly. “I guess so.”

Trott smiles affectionately at Sips’ puzzled face. His eyes observe the lines drawn across Sips’ forehead, the creases at the corners of his eyes, and the gray roots in his hair. The sight makes him disheartened.

Sips’ eyes and charm are as youthful as ever, but Trott would be lying to himself if he didn’t see the ageing of his features. Human, mortal, expendable- the words always come to mind, and since the night they met Trott’s been curious. What was it about Sips that allowed him to stay? Why did this king matter more than the others? He never found a definite answer, other than the fact that Sips was something they didn’t know they needed.

The Garbage Court had needed someone more than just a king.

Trott purses his lips and picks a bit of lint off the top of Sips’ hat. The embroidered gold crown is fuzzy from loose strings, and the hat itself is ripped along the stitching and faded from the sun.

"I think I should re-embroider this. It's getting pretty frayed." Trott says, brushing his fingers across the worn edges of Sips' baseball cap.

"I've had it for a decade or so.” Sips mumbles. “I’d say it’s been pretty well-loved."

Trott hums. He rubs his free hand across Sips’ shoulder for a moment as he stares at the frayed embroidery. The hat was bought at a pawn-shop not long after crowning Sips. It had been a perfect gift for the laid-back king, and it had only cemented the fact that they weren't going to kill him like they were supposed to.

Blood was spilt that night they met, for the ritual to work, but the bond ran deep. Deeper than they could have predicted. Trott will never admit that it scares him, how much they would all give up for Sips. When he’d talked to Smith and Ross about forming a court, he didn’t think the magic would grow this much.

Trott had only made contingency plans for the worst possible outcomes. They were still viable, especially in the city they lived in, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t consider how much power they all held.

They had the potential to challenge courts, if Sips’ stayed in power and Trott’s arrangements with fae worked in their favor. But Trott doubts it all, because appearance can’t hide the truth: Sips’ mortality is a weakness. The crown is only a hat, but the symbol it holds means everything.

Do the other humans see Sips for what he is- a king of fae with the power of the thousands of deaths his court has wrought? Or do they just see an old businessman in a baseball cap?

Trott moves his hand from Sips’ shoulder, the shoulder with the scar that lies underneath.

Regardless of what anyone else thought Sips was, there were people out there that saw Sips and the Garbage Court as a threat. It was up to Trott to make that a promise, and keep them all out of harm's way in the meantime. He owed it to all of them to do what he could and keep them safe.

Sips sets his phone aside and groans loudly, disrupting Trott’s thoughts.

“What was it?” Trott asks, leaning away from the couch and straightening his posture.

“ _Loser._ ”

Trott laughs. He pats Sips’ head sympathetically, and on second thought, takes ahold of his hat by the brim. "You know, this needs a wash." He says, carefully lifting the hat from Sips' head and examining the fabric closely. Was that a pizza stain? He grimaces. “Ugh, this is more disgusting than I thought.” He holds it out, pinched between two fingers, an arms length away from him, and walks away from the couch to add it to the laundry.

“Yeah, you might have needed to buy a hazmat suit, Trott.” Sips drawls, scribbling in the answer to his crossword. “But that’s what you get when I wear it all the time.”

“Dammit, you didn’t tell me you were radioactive!” Trott whines playfully, adding the hat to the pile and shaking his hand like it had something stuck to it. “I don’t want to grow extra limbs!”

“Sorry. I don’t have surprise tentacle limbs, though, promise.” Sips grins.

Trott snickers and throws open the lid to the washer. “Radioactive tentacle limbs. Sounds like a hentai film.”

“Or a giant squid monster movie.”

“Pshhhh.” Trott rolls his eyes. “ _Giant squids_. Remind me to tell you stories someday about the bloody squid tribes. Fucking wankers, the lot of them.”

Sips laughs and watches Trott throw his hat into the washer with some other items.

“Is that all you’re doing today? Laundry?” The mortal king asks, stretching out his legs to prop them up on the coffee table.

“Mostly. If I have time I’ll do some charm-work in my office. I have some paperwork to finish for tomorrow, so I might be up late.”

Sips chuckles. “It seems like you’re always doing laundry.”

Trott slams the washer lid shut with a laugh. “There are four of us, and I’m the only one who won’t fuck up our clothes. Of course it seems like that.” He disappears back down the hall, laundry basket in hand.

Sips looks back down at his lap. “Hm. Seven letter word for misery...”

 

" _Oh, Smith!_ " Trott sing-songs as he strides into the bedroom. He throws open the curtain and shakes the lump under the sheets. " _Rise and shine, my dear!_ "

He gets a growl in response.

" _Smith._ "

"Fuck off." Smith grumbles sleepily.

"Are you going to stay in bed all day?" Trott laughs, pulling the sheets away from Smith's face.

The kelpie blinks up at him, squinting in the light streaming through the window.

"What of it?" He scowls.

"I've got to wash the sheets." Trott chuckles and strokes Smith's hair away from his eyes. "That means up and at 'em, sunshine."

Smith groans and stretches languidly, joints cracking. He rolls over on his side, away from Trott, and buries his face in the pillows. "Don't wanna. Wanna sleep." He whines.

Trott shakes him some more, but Smith just moans and refuses to let go of the sheets.

With a huff, the selkie resolves to think tactically. He exits the bedroom and makes his way to the front door.

"Smith not getting up?" Sips asks, laughing.

Trott shakes his head. "Nope. Is Ross on the roof?"

"Probably."

Trott steps out of the apartment, trying to stay in the strip of shade and not scald his bare feet on the boiling hot sidewalk.

"Hey Ross!" He calls up to the roof.

There's a rough sound of shifting stone and then Ross' head is peeking over the top.

"Yeah?" He asks. His horns glint in the sunlight.

"Can you come down for a minute and drag Smith out of bed? It's laundry day again and I've got to wash the sheets."

The gargoyle laughs. "Sure thing, Trott. Just a minute."

He disappears from view, amidst scratching sounds and a large thud.

Ross walks around the corner of the building, dusting off his hands. "What do you want me to do with him?" He grins.

"Fuck if I know." Trott holds the door open to go back inside. "Just get him out of bed."

Smith protests loudly as he’s pulled from his pillow pile. Sips laughs in amusement watching Ross heft the kelpie over his shoulder, walk down the hall, and go back out into the summer heat.

"Thanks, Ross!" Trott chirps happily.

"Oh, fuck all of you!" Smith growls to the laughing faces of his court, flipping them off as Trott closes the door.

Problem solved, Trott continues doing laundry.

 

* * *

 

Up on the top of the apartment building, Ross and Smith stare out at the city. The gargoyle has an arm around Smith's waist, and a hand stroking delicately through his hair.

Smith sighs and slumps back into Ross' hold. He tilts his head back onto Ross' shoulder, and shivers at the slide of his tail around his naked calf. Even in the summer sun, the gargoyle’s skin is cool to the touch.

Smith fidgets a little, shifting his posture down until he’s reclined back onto Ross’ chest.

"Sorry, are my hands too cold?" Ross asks, pulling his arm away from Smith’s waist and stilling his hand in Smith's hair.

"No, it feels nice. Comforting." Smith replies. “It’s just warm out here.”

If Ross wasn’t made of stone, Smith would be complaining about the heat of the sun on his skin. He wants to be back in the air conditioning, but marble that felt like a fridge would have to do until Trott finished washing the sheets.

Ross chuckles affectionately and returns his hand to Smith’s hair. “Let me know if you want to go inside. We can sit with Sips on the couch if you really want to get out of the sun.”

“It’s fine. I know you like being out here.” Smith closes his eyes and basks in the feeling as Ross continues his ministrations.

“You’ve been sleeping a lot, lately.” Ross adds quietly.

Smith swallows, throat suddenly dry. “‘s not out of the ordinary for me, is it?”

“No, I suppose not...” Ross hums back. His fingers idle their movements as he gets caught up in thinking.

_Don’t pry, Ross. Don’t ask. Please, I can’t...._

Smith shoves down the feelings rising up, ignores the words constricting in his throat. But something makes him ask a question a heartbeat later.

"Ross?" Smith murmurs.

"Hm?"

"Do you believe in redemption?" The kelpie asks minutely. The words are hardly a whisper, but Ross hears them easily.

"Yes." Ross replies simply. He looks down at Smith in his lap. "Do you?"

Smith looks past him, up at the wispy clouds above.

"No."

The gargoyle looks up where Smith is looking, and then back down to watch Smith’s green eyes trace the clouds. "Why not?" Ross asks. He tilts his head to the side pensively.

Smith scoffs. A bitter frown crosses his face. "There's not enough luck in the world, Ross."

Ross frowns back and repeats his question. "Why not?"

"Why do you always ask that?" The kelpie inquires tiredly, closing his eyes.

"Can you really blame me?" Ross chuckles. "Over eight hundred years old, but there's not much up here." He taps the side of his head even though Smith can't see him.

Smith laughs all the same. "I suppose that's true. We’ve filled in quite a few decades, though."

A brief grin on Smith’s face makes Ross smile back, but the smile fades first from Smith’s face and then Ross’. Smith sighs heavily.

Ross slides his tail up and down Smith’s leg, tracing patterns with the flat side of the pointed end. "I wonder if luck and miracles are the same thing." Ross hums to himself, thinking out loud. He stares up at the clouds.

"They're not?" Smith asks. He blinks open his eyes at the lack of a reply.

Golden beams of sunlight sparkle in the depths of Ross' eyes. His marble skin glows, features chiseled and casting shadows behind them. There's the softest smile on his lips as he stares enraptured at the sky.

If Smith didn't know Ross would sit still literally forever, he would watch the sun cross his skin from dawn until dusk and back again.

"Ross..." Smith murmurs, stretching his hand up to cup the gargoyle's cheek.

"Hmm?" Ross looks down slowly. "What? What're you smiling at?" He asks, fingers brushing along Smith's collarbone.

Smith's smile brightens. He tries to sit up, but his forehead knocks into Ross' chin.

“Fuck! Ow...” The kelpie holds his forehead and winces.

Ross laughs. "Alright there?"

"...Shut up."

Ross smiles.

Smith begrudgingly maneuvers from his languid position to sit in Ross' lap. He presses a small kiss to the gargoyle’s lips. "There. That's all." He rubs at his forehead and huffs. “ _Ow._ Fucking been awhile since I’ve done that.”

"That's all? Just one kiss?" Ross licks his lips and grins. “You go through the trouble of whacking your forehead on my chin, probably bruising yourself in the process, and that's all I get?”

Smith laughs and leans in, slower this time. “Or maybe two, I guess...”

 

* * *

 

“There we go...clean and fresh. It’s like brand new!”

Sips smirks as Trott takes his hat out of the dryer and walks over to him. The crossword Sips was working on was complete, and now it acted as a coaster for his tall glass of iced tea.

“While I’m at it, Sips...” Trott says quietly, affixing the hat on the mortal’s head with the gentleness he’d shown times before. “I’m going to strengthen that bond.”

Sips knows the bond he’s talking about instantly, but he asks Trott what he means.

“The bond that makes you king.” Trott takes Sips’ hand and turns it palm up. He traces the white, pale scar there with his thumb.

Strengthening the bond should have been done years ago, but they were careless. They were over-confident. And that inebriated hedonism could have cost them everything.

Once again, Trott will set things right.

“Hard to believe it’s been as long as it has.” Trott remarks. “Since the night we crowned you king.”

Sips shrugs. “Time speeds up as you get older. Before you know it, all of life has gone by and you’re left wondering how it happened.”

The selkie smirks. “I find that funny, you know. Coming from a human.”

“You find that funny? You fae don’t have a concept of finality.” Sips scoffs humorously. “You watch eons go by, worlds change, and magic bend and ebb with the city, if you’re lucky. The concept of time feeling sped up is nothing to you. Not for those who live such long lives. Doesn’t it seem to drag, all those years?”

Trott hums and moves his thumb to trace the lines in Sips' palm instead. “I’m not sure fae feel like time gets longer either. In reality, time doesn’t change- we fae aren’t able to fully understand what that means to humans. Of course we’re going to find it strange when your lives are normally a fraction of ours.”

Sips chuckles sadly. “Normally, yes.”

Trott huffs and searches through his pocket for a spare knife. “In order to strengthen the bond, I have to reopen the mark and force magic through it.” He clarifies to Sips.

The mortal king gives him a terse nod. “Do what you have to do, then.”

Trott hesitates only a second, the tip of the knife hovering over Sips’ palm, before he scours the blade along the scarline.

Sips doesn’t make a sound, just watches Trott as he puts the knife away and presses his other hand on top of Sips’.

The smell of saltwater and brine permeates the air. Sips’ hand, held between Trott’s, becomes ensconced in glowing, pale blue light. The chill of the magic is like ice in Sips’ veins, but the warmth of Trott’s hands keeps him from shivering. It's the deepest cold he's ever felt, so cold it almost burns. Trott's hands are warm through it all.

A minute later, the light fades, and Trott pulls away.

“Alright?” He asks Sips, watching the mortal king rotate his hand in front of his face.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The skin was healed again. It looked no different on the outside than it did before.

Trott could feel Sips’ bond a little easier now, with his magic tied into it. He rubs the cold feeling out of his hands with a uncomfortable frown.

Sips lowers his hand back to his side, and nods at Trott.

The selkie purses his lips together. He raises his gaze until he meets Sips’ eyes. “If anyone tries to kill you again, they’re going to have to get through me.”

“I thought that was already a given.” Sips says with a tiny smile. He reaches up to trace the line of Trott’s collarbone with his fingertips and stretches to peck a kiss to his lips. “Do you have a spot of free time now, or do you still have laundry to do?”

Trott smiles and gestures at the pile of dirty sheets in the hall. “Still laundry, I’m afraid.”

Sips hums unhappily.

“But...” Trott smirks, and carefully straddles Sips knees. “I could spare a few minutes for the mortal king.”

Sips grins as Trott tilts his chin up and kisses him greedily.

 

* * *

 

“Trott, we're going for Chinese food, you coming with?” Ross asks a few hours later, knocking on the open door to Trott’s office.

“No, I have things to finish up here, sunshine.” Trott sighs. “You three go on without me.”

Ross frowns at the tension in the selkie’s shoulders. Trott doesn't look up from his work, and his head is turned away from Ross.

“You sure?” Ross asks again.

“Yeah. Just bring me back some eggrolls and fried rice, okay?” Trott shuffles through a stack of papers, searching for something.

“Will do.” Ross bites his lip, and leaves Trott to join Smith and Sips in the car.

 

The bell over the door chimes as they walk in. Sips was the one who suggested the place, and Smith and Ross hadn’t been to this specific restaurant before.

The Chinese restaurant looks like it’s a few decades in the past, with vinyl-covered seats in pink and teal, and several neon signs in the windows. The ceiling tiles are black and white, the walls mirrored, and there’s a big, gold-framed painting of a rainforest waterfall on the far wall.

“I can see why you like this, Sips.” Smith says, taking a seat at one of the formica tables. He rolls the toothpick in his mouth from side to side, grinding his teeth and flipping the wooden stick in his mouth over and over.

Ross shifts slowly onto a seat across from him, trying not to rest his weight too heavily on the furniture. “What are we ordering?” He asks, looking over at Sips who sits down next to him.

Sips browses a menu. “Trott said he wanted some fried rice and some egg rolls, right? I’ll probably get some chow mein for myself. What do you boys want?”

The mortal king looks up and watches Smith fiddle with the toothpick in his mouth.

“You’re going to stab that through your tongue.” He mutters dryly.

Smith grins. “No I won’t.” He flips the toothpick in his mouth some more and waggles his eyebrows. “You’re just jealous that I have excellent tonguing ability.”

Sips snorts. “You won’t anymore if you stab a piece of wood through your tongue.”

“I’m not going to-” Mid-sentence the toothpick falls from Smith’s mouth and onto the tabletop. “ _Aw_ , dammit...”

Sips and Ross laugh at him, and Smith shakes his head.

“Just tell me what the fuck you want to eat, Smith, so I can order it already.” Sips hands him the menu.

As Smith looks over the elaborate list of dishes, his stomach twists. Sure, he’s hungry, but for some reason the thought of food makes him nauseous.

The kelpie shrugs. “I’ll have whatever Ross doesn’t eat.”

“So...air?” Sips raises an eyebrow and gestures at the gargoyle beside him. “Because this is Ross we’re talking about, he’d probably eat the container, too, if we didn’t tell him not to.”

Ross laughs. “He’s right, you know.”

Smith rolls his eyes. “Okay, let me correct that- I’ll eat whatever you order me. Happy?” He tosses the menu into Sips’ lap and folds his arms across his chest.

“Hope you enjoy eating shit.” Ross sticks out his tongue at Smith.

Smith sticks out his tongue back at him.

Sips clears his throat and looks at the menu again. “Honey chicken sound good, Ross?” He asks with a sigh.

Ross smiles. “Yeah. You’ll know I’ll eat anything, Sips.”

“Why am I even asking, then? Ugh!” Sips throws his hands up in the air in mock aggravation and pushes his chair away from the table.

Smith and Ross chuckle to themselves, watching their mortal king walk up to the counter to order food.

Ross taps his tail on the floor in time with the music overhead, and Smith hums along absent-mindedly. Sips sits down a few minutes later, asking about the movies that were coming out soon and a possible movie night. They talk in the companionable somewhat-quiet of the restaurant, as the occasional person arrives to pick up an order, and the person at the counter takes orders off the phone.

The food is brought out to them in no time, steaming hot and smelling of sauteed vegetables, chicken, and rice.

Smith picks at his orange chicken, not eating much. It’s good, it tastes good, but his appetite has gotten lost in the few minutes it took to cook the food. That’s how it’s been as of late.

Sips is messily eating his chow mein, while Ross has a pot sticker in one hand and an eggroll in the other.

Smith leans over and steals a bit of chicken from Ross’ plate. It tastes better than his, but still, he’s not that hungry. He looks between the two of them and smiles sadly. He normally enjoys spending time with them like this, but part of him feels uneasy- part of him feels like he shouldn’t be here. Something about this feels fake.

_Why aren’t you happy?_ He thinks to himself. _You should be happy._

_Or maybe you shouldn’t be._

_Maybe you don’t deserve any of this._

Ross steals a bite right off of Sips’ fork when he looks away, and Smith can’t help but chuckle warmly at the sight. Fuck, he doesn’t...he doesn’t deserve this happy feeling, because it feels like cheating.

He shouldn’t feel this way at all, not when...

_Fuck, stop it._ Smith ducks his head down at his plate and sighs.

_Just forget about it. Don’t worry on it. Shut the fuck up and eat your damn food._

He shovels more rice into his mouth and chews slowly. Duran Duran plays over the loudspeaker, singing about the reflexes of some kid on a playground.

“What’s your fortune cookie say, Smith?” Ross asks, munching loudly on his.

Smith looks up and shrugs. “Haven’t opened mine yet.” He leaves his fork in his barely-touched meal and cracks open the fortune cookie he’d been given.

“‘Sometimes you just need to lay on the floor.’” Smith reads aloud with a shake of his head. “What the fuck! That was shit advice.” He pushes the remains to the middle of the table.

“That’s a true one, though. Sometimes you do need to lay on the floor.” Sips notes, taking a large bite of his eggroll.

“Mine was ‘A good way to keep healthy is to eat more Chinese food.’” Ross states with a grin. “I couldn’t agree more, personally.”

Smith scoffs. “Fortune cookies are dumb. They don’t hold any wisdom, it’s just a gimmick.”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“How about we see what mine says, eh? Deciding vote.” Sips wipes his hands on his jeans and breaks his fortune cookie neatly in half. He unfolds the white strip of paper in his hands, clears his throat, and proceeds to read the message out in a serious tone. “‘In this life it is not what we take up, but what we give up, that makes us rich.’”

Sips bursts into laughter at the look on Smith’s face.

“See, Smith, wise words of wisdom inside every cookie.” Ross winks at him and eats the remainder of his fortune cookie with a loud crunch.

Smith flips them both off, but there’s a smile at the corner of his mouth. He eats a little more and listens to Sips and Ross chatter amiably.

The door chimes again, another customer coming to pick up an order. Smith hears the clack-clack of heels walking across laminate wood flooring. He can’t help but glance up, like he normally does, but this time it’s different.

This time, his gaze freezes on the pretty young thing at the counter.

The temptation rushes through him like a lit fuse. All of his senses focus in, and the whole world narrows. The desire to seek her out itches under his skin. The river beckons.

“Smith?” Ross’ voice comes in as if he’s underwater, muffled and sounding distorted.

There’s static in Smith’s ears, and that little voice is whispering.

_Why don’t you go say hello._

The plastic fork in his grip snaps in half. His nails are digging into his palm, and there’s pain in his jaw from gritting his teeth. But all of this is distant, compared to the fog clouding his head.

The girl at the counter has her back turned away from him. Smith tries so hard to keep the charm at bay, but it’s creeping past his resolve. He stopped drowning people weeks ago, and ever since the call keeps getting stronger and harder to resist.

It would be so easy, to let the charm settle over the calm of the restaurant and beckon her over to him.

It’d be so easy, but he can’t let himself. He can’t.

Smith feels Ross tighten his tail around his leg.

The girl at the counter receives her order, and shuffles the food into her arms. She pulls out her phone to answer a phone call.

_This is it._

The blood rushes in his ears, roaring loud like an oncoming train. The charm is held back by a short leash, but it’s pressed to him so tightly he can only have one objective: her.

Someone grabs onto his wrist, and Smith shudders as if ice was just dropped down the back of his shirt.

The girl starts to turn just as someone cups Smith’s jaw with a hand.

Before Smith understands what happens, his head is turned away from the line-of-sight of the girl and Sips’ mouth presses insistently to his.

His lips part in shock. With the charm roaring inside him, he nearly pushes Sips away. But Sips’ threads his fingers through Smith’s hair and _yanks_ , and Smith’s eyes flutter shut. Sips pulls him over the table in one of the most forceful kisses he’s ever had. Sips’ mouth is warm and bruising and his fingers have a tight grip on Smith’s hair.

Confusion, frustration, and a brief lapse of relief flicks through Smith’s mind. The bell on the door chimes as the object of his lust leaves without objection.

Sips’ kissing slows, but his grip in Smith’s hair doesn’t change.

Smith’s mind feels raw with energy. His body feels numb.

As the world comes back into focus, he realizes he’s slumped over the table and Ross is holding him up by his shoulders. Sips has his hand on Smith’s wrist still. Smith places his other hand flat on the table to regain his balance.

He’s...so confused.

His charm swirls inside him, burrowing back again, but desiring just as much.

At the same time, there is Sips, who the kelpie doesn’t want to drown. But Sips’ kisses are sending sparks down Smith’s spine, pushing the lust for the river to the back of his mind.

Slowly, Sips’ grip loosens in his hair. Ross’ hands leave his shoulders, and Sips pulls away with a soft murmur.

Smith slumps back into his chair, shaking and panting. He blinks his eyes open and stares, dazed, at Sips and Ross across the table.

The noise of the restaurant comes back in suddenly as if it’d been muted all this time. The phone behind the counter is ringing and the sounds of cooking come from the kitchen.

Smith takes a deep breath and lets it out again. His heart is thudding hard against his ribcage.

“How about we finish this back home, yeah?” Sips says quietly. He gestures to the extra food in take-away containers. “Trott’s probably hungry by now.”

Smith nods slightly and looks away, down at his lap and the floor beneath the table. The fluorescent lights overhead glare on the waxed surface.

Ross’s tail squeezes Smith’s leg and lets go. Sips packs up the food and stands, nodding towards the door.

“Don’t want to make the food cold, do we Smiffy?” He asks, watching Smith carefully.

The kelpie shakes his head and gets to his feet. He follows behind Sips, feeling like he stepped out of a fever dream and back into grim reality.

For once he’s thankful that Sips drove so he can slouch in the passenger seat. Smith feels like he’s running on empty, over-sensitive and like he was chewed up and spat out again.

The voices seethe, unsatisfied.

Smith stares tiredly out the window and watches the scenery roll by as Sips drives them home.

 

* * *

 

When they get back, Trott enters the kitchen looking like he’s been in his office for days instead of just an hour or so.

“What’s all this?” He asks, gesturing at the food on the counter. “You guys didn’t eat at the restaurant?”

“I thought we could have a proper sit down meal together, Trott.” Sips remarks, handing him an actual plate of fried rice, chicken, and an eggroll.

“A proper meal of take out?” Trott asks with a smile.

Sips shrugs, and they all take their seats at the table.

Ross raises an eyebrow at Smith's half-eaten dinner as he puts the remaining food containers away. “Are you going to eat yours, Smith?” He asks, pointing to the chicken.

“No, go ahead and have it.” Smith mumbles.

"Is there something wrong with it?"

Smith shakes his head. "I’m just not hungry. That’s all."

Ross frowns but puts the leftovers in the fridge and sits down at Trott’s feet.

As Trott eats, he notices Smith’s tensed, hunched shoulders and piss-poor mood.

“What’s up with you?” He asks, nibbling on a piece of chicken.

Smith says nothing.

“There was a girl at the restaurant.” Sips answers for him as he picks at his chow mein.

Trott chews his food slowly, looking from Smith to Sips. “A girl?”

Smith knows Trott knows without even asking. The creeping tension in the room makes him want to throw up. He leans his chin on one of his hands and bounces his leg under the table. His other hand grips the table’s edge so hard his nails leave indents in the wood.

“Are you going to elaborate on that?” Trott presses, looking between them again and watching the mortal king slurp up noodles.

“Smith wanted some girl who walked in, but I distracted him.”

“You distracted him?”

“Yup.” Sips gives Trott his “we’ll talk later” look.

Smith continues to bounce his leg. All the energy from the restaurant has shifted, leaving him nervous and keyed up. He stares down at the marks on the table instead of up at his court.

Trott’s plate rattles, and the selkie lowers his fork from his mouth with a sigh.

"Smith, knock it off, will you? You're shaking the table." He frowns.

"I can't." Smith says through gritted teeth. His knee bounces with the force of a jackhammer.

Trott watches him carefully. “Are you so sure you can cut cold turkey like this?” He says after a pause.

“Fuck off, Trott...”

“Don’t tell me to fuck off, I’m just saying.”

“I can’t fucking stand this.” The kelpie sighs frustratedly. “I can’t. _Fucking. Stand this._ ”

Ross moves his tail towards Smith to curl it around his ankle, but Smith pulls away.

“What do you want us to do?” Ross asks quietly. “There has to be something we can do to help.”

Smith shakes his head no.

“Smith...”

“I need a distraction, I need-” Smith rubs his face with his hand. “I don’t know.”

The wanting isn’t going to go away. He can’t just make it disappear.

“Do you want sex from us?” Sips suggests.

Trott gives Sips a look.

“What?” The mortal king raises an eyebrow.

“If fuckmurdering and drowning people is what Smith wants to do, he can’t do that to us.” Trott states.

“For fuck’s-” Sips rolls his eyes. “I know that, I just thought- wouldn’t it work as a replacement?”

“A placebo effect, you mean?”

Sips shrugs. “I don’t know, he’s got to calm down first, but isn’t it worth a try?”

“Sips, that’s not going to work.” Trott sighs aggravatedly.

“Why _wouldn’t_ sex work?”

“Because it’s-” The selkie scowls and shakes his head. “You can’t just solve everything with sex!”

“He needs something to take the edge off-”

“Replace one addiction with another, that’s a good idea.” Trott scoffs.

“Will you stop talking about me like I’m not in the room?” Smith growls under his breath.

They continue talking though, like they didn’t hear a word he said. Smith grinds his teeth together and glares down at the table. All the frustration at himself and the nerves from the restaurant start to meld into anger.

Sips purses his lips. “We need a temporary solution right now, not a long term one.”

Trott shakes his head. “I couldn’t control his reckless behavior in the past-”

“Control?” Smith snaps, finally looking up and interrupting them. “ _Control?_ The fuck are you _saying?_ ”

The force with which Smith stands sends his chair clattering to the floor.

“Smith,” Trott starts. “I meant-”

“Shut _the fuck up!_ ” Smith screeches. He snatches Trott’s plate from across the table, and before the selkie can protest, hurls it into the wall. Ceramic smashes against plaster with a loud crash, and the apartment falls dead silent.

Smith shakes where he stands, panting. Trott gapes, and all the color drains from Sips’ face. The splattered food starts to slide down the wall.

"Fuck you." The kelpie spits, glaring. “Over. _Three. Dozen._ ”

“...Three dozen what?” Trott asks slowly.

“I drowned over _three dozen people_ last month.” Smith sneers. “ _And I didn't hide the bodies._ So _excuse me_ if I’m having a _hard fucking time_ of it lately.” His chest rises and falls heavily with every breath.

His court stares back, flabbergasted.

Smith points a finger at Trott and pretends his hands aren’t shaking. " _Fuck_ you and your _fucking_ blinders!" He snarls. "All you see is my fucking recklessness and nothing else."

"Smith-" Trott tries again, but Smith doesn’t let him get a word in.

"You think all I am is a fucking monster? Then fine! Forget everything. Disregard all those years we spent!" Smith throws his hands up in the the air and steps back from the table. “Does it all mean nothing after what I’ve done?”

Ross is wide-eyed, nervously looking between Smith and Trott. Sips sits rigidly in his chair, only he’s staring at the broken plate like he’s somewhere else.

“I was just suggesting-”

"Stop trying to make decisions for me.” The kelpie growls. “I can't ever do anything right by you, can I? Any choice I make is the wrong one!”

Trott swallows thickly and shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“Fuck if it isn’t, by your words. _You're_ the one who doesn't think before they speak.” Smith snaps, pointing at Trott again. “So stop being a fucking hypocrite."

Smith lowers his hand to his side and stares back for a beat of silence. Then he turns and marches out of the apartment, slamming the door shut so hard that the wood splinters.

No one says a thing. No one stops him from going, and that only makes him hate himself more. Smith veers away from his car and walks instead, picking up speed. He ducks into alleyways, losing his way home, and strays away from bars despite their call.

If he goes in, he's done for. That's it, game over- he's failed again.

And though he feels like his court doesn’t care that he left, that they don’t care at all, he doesn’t want to lose them.

He can’t fail again.

He can’t.

It doesn’t take much longer to realize someone’s following him. Smith hears the scraping of claws on brick: the sound of something climbing down a building.

A gargoyle leaps from the rooftops and lands with a thud, blocking his path.

Smith comes to a stop.

“You’re right.” Ross murmurs. “We didn’t mean to block you out.”

"I don't want to talk, Ross." Smith says emotionlessly.

Ross frowns. “I’m sorry, Smith. We’re just trying to help.”

“I said, _I don’t want to talk, Ross._ ” The words echo down the alley, their tone grating and broken.

Ross says nothing.

Smith turns and walks away, taking the alley out and towards the riverside. The streets are empty; the factories quiet. Their footsteps are cacophonous as they echo along the buildings.

“I’m sorry. If you’re mad, now.” Ross mutters as they make their way to the river’s edge.

Smith squeezes his eyes shut. There’s pressure in his chest, his throat closes up with the weight of the emotions because that’s not it, that’s not why. He’s not mad at them, he just can’t speak, can’t get the words out, but _he’s sorry, he’s sorry._

Fuck, he doesn’t want to talk about this now...

“It’s not you.” Smith manages to say. But he immediately clams up, because if he keeps talking everything will come spilling out.

He can’t let them know how bad it is. He can’t let them worry. No matter how much it hurts.

He takes a seat on the metal railings lining the river’s edge, rests his chin on his hands, and watches the water churn.

He’s hollow inside.

Ross sits down beside him in silence, watching the sun set and the moon rise.

They go home eventually.

 

* * *

 

The apartment is dark when they return, save for the kitchen light.

Ross frowns and leaves Smith by the door to investigate. His feet shuffle from carpet to linoleum with the creaking of floorboards, only to come to a stop.

Smith peers past him as he takes his boots off. He can see the mess he made earlier, still on the floor, and his heart drops into his stomach. Ross is looking down at the food splattered on the wall and the broken shards of ceramic everywhere, and Smith feels sick.

It was only a plate, but if that was true Trott or Sips would have cleaned it up. The fact that they didn’t means it hurt them more than Smith first thought. His mistakes are there for him to see again, and he turns away in bitterness.

Sips wakes up from his doze on the couch at the sound of Smith’s boots hitting the wall. The mortal king sleepily gets up. Rubbing his tired eyes, he intercepts Smith on his way to the bedroom.

Smith stops and stares wide-eyed and Sips gives him a long look. In the darkness of the living room, Sips’ eyes are even more haunted. Unsmiling, the shadows make Sips look grayed out and exhausted. He curls his hand onto Smith’s upper arm and pulls him closer.

"Don't throw plates, Smith." Sips mumbles with a shake of his head. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a moment and sighs, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the kelpie’s cheek.

Smith swallows thickly. He feels like he should say something, but he’s unable to speak. Even the voices in his head are silent this time. They have nothing in response after hearing the emotionless tone of Sips’ words.

It was only a plate, but Smith feels guilt rise up inside him. It’s bitter on his tongue; makes his throat close up in shame.

The mortal king pulls him along the hallway and into the bedroom. Smith goes without resisting, even though he wants to fight him all the way. How can he lie next to them like nothing happened?

Trott’s curled away from him on the other side of the bed. Sips settles in next to him and brings Smith’s arm over his side to twine their fingers together.

Smith presses his face into Sips’ upper back. He wants someone to say more to him, in anger or in disappointment, he doesn’t care which. Instead, his court says nothing. All Smith has is Sips’ short rebuke to turn over and over in his head.

_Throwing plates...the fuck is wrong with me?_

_I’m such a fucking screw-up..._

Watching Trott and Sips sleep with their backs to him is like they’re shutting him out, and Smith can’t stand the sight of it. He extracts himself from Sips and turns onto his stomach with his face in the pillows- so he doesn’t have to see them, and they don’t have to see him. He can pretend that he’s not letting this get to him again, that he’s not desperately trying to keep himself together tonight.

Every little thing is so hard, nowadays. The smallest of problems get magnified, and under their weight Smith crumbles.

_Fuck. They must really hate me now. Trott’ll be fucking cheerful come morning, that’s for sure..._

When Ross comes to bed, Smith squeezes his eyes shut tight and pretends to be asleep. His body posture is a blatant lie. He’s trying to curl around himself, and his arms clutch his pillow like a life preserver. Smith is sure Ross can tell he’s awake, but the gargoyle settles on the other side of him and falls asleep.

Smith sighs heavily into the pillowcase. He’s uncertain if he’s feeling relief that he doesn’t have to explain his actions, or anguish that he can’t. Regardless, it is only when his court has long been asleep, that he can finally whisper them a broken apology.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129777378045  
> Ross on the roof  
> http://wordsnquotes.com/post/117551688698/every-saint-has-a-past-and-every-sinner-has-a  
> "Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."- Oscar Wilde  
> Ross and Smith
> 
> Chinese restaurant:  
> https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/10/23/80s-looking-chinese-restaurant/
> 
> http://retrodrive.tumblr.com/post/121311768110/casual-male-fashion-blog  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/131666491982/broadens-some-of-my-favourite-wall-pieces-with  
> smith when getting Chinese food
> 
> fortune cookies were from this site:  
> http://www.fortunecookiemessage.com/archive.php
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/128826241117/glamourzombie-why-do-we-dance-around-the-issues  
> why do we sit around and break each others hearts tonight
> 
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129707601280  
> Smith walking out
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/124401883810  
> everything takes time
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/133713173976/cpt-jayfaace-urbanmagicaesthetic  
> I can't remember, I can't forget


	3. for who would bear the whips and scorns of time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 3 cws: talk of drowning, death, and fae manipulation. mention of smoking and wounds. drinking. vaguely suicidal thoughts/ideation, mentions of dead bodies.
> 
> want to reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/to-be-or-not-to-be-ghostofgatsby
> 
> playlist for to be or not to be, The Thousand Natural Shocks:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5ZDKsjtx240E1fjJaAhYnR
> 
> full tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/the-thousand-natural-shocks-playlist

The low hum of talking customers filters through Trott’s closed office door. Crystal and Chastity’s bubbly voices are peppered between the chiming of the bell over the front door to the shop, and Trott tries to block it out.

A thermos of tea sits steaming to his left, barely touched. His paperwork, strewn across his desk and piled around his feet, is seemingly endless.

He’s behind on his work, and the tension in his shoulders isn’t helping.

Trott rubs his tired eyes. He’s gotten restless sleep these past few weeks, and a constant backache from stooping over his desk so much. The repetitive stress makes Trott on edge. His anxiety winds tightly in his gut and makes him feel nauseous.

To make matters worse, what Smith had said was eating at him like battery acid.

_Hypocrite._

Though Trott was perturbed by Smith’s angry outburst, there was a point to his argument. And by the way he acted before Trott left for work this morning, the kelpie was obviously feeling remorse for the previous night.

Trott was all for ignoring the problem until later. He was more preoccupied with getting to work early, catching up on the paperwork he hadn’t finished, and not panicking about all the crap he had to accomplish today. As he headed towards the door, he found Smith hovering with a pained look in his eyes.

The fact that Smith was awake at this hour was already a shock. Trott was even more thrown off when he wordlessly pressed a thermos into his hand.

Smith made him fucking _tea_ to take to work.

Trott stared back in shock. “Uh. Thanks.” He swallowed thickly.

Smith rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah.” He avoided Trott’s gaze as he held open the door, and the selkie left without much of a goodbye.

As Trott made his way to work, he knew he had to let the argument slide. It was not an easy thing to do, but the more he thought about the events of last night, the more his worry overcame his anger.

_Three dozen._

Smith couldn't have drowned that many people. That meant almost two or three people per night. It wasn’t impossible, but Trott needs proof for himself.

Taking a deep breath, the selkie extracts today’s newspaper from his sea of paperwork. He can try scrying for information on magic police cases using Monday’s paper hot off the press. Trott picks up his pen, rubbing his fingers across the runes of accuracy and efficiency inscribed down the side. He flips to the Business section of the newspaper and scans over the articles.

“Ticket Prices For Theatres Soaring“, no that wouldn’t do. “New Business Developments Downtown“...“BBQ Restaurant Raves“...no. He looks at the next page. “Popular Club Closing Down”- there’s something.

Trott browses the article, circling the occasional word in vibrant magenta ink. From the looks of things, decline in customers put the club out of business. But despite what mortal news tells, magic may have something else to say.

“...with attendance _dropping_...”

“Soon _drowning_ in debt, the owners...”

“‘At least we’ll have our _memories_ of the place, after it closes.’”

Trott finishes reading and scratches in a line of runes at the bottom of the page.

The paper ripples like pebbles in a stream. Images swirl and change. The letters start to rearrange to tell a different story, and the new headline is the last to form in bold lettering across the top.

“Drowned Bodies Found In Club Bathroom”

Instead of a dilapidated club entrance, the moving picture is of Tom Angor surveying a bathroom. The fallen angel stares down at a slumped body in a stall and smokes his cigarette. Smoke curls from the end of the paper, lit end burning orange in the dark.

From the date in the top right hand corner, this was early last month.

Trott mimes turning the page with his hand, and the letters rearrange again.

“Supermarket Janitor Drowned In Freezer?”

The selkie frowns. It looks like Smith's handiwork, alright.

Angor’s there again, standing in front of a freezer case. Trott can see frost on the floor where the body lies. He keeps turning the pages, finding article after article depicting Smith’s kills.

“Four Found Drowned In BDSM Bunker”

It’s a seedy basement club called The Inferno, with fire red lights and stairs that wind down and down.

Trott shudders. He doesn’t like the look of the place.

The bodies are clothed in latex and leather, haphazardly laying up against chain-covered walls. The water on the floor glimmers and shines in the strobe lights.

Angor’s eyes are brimming in barely hidden glee. He mouths a number, and Trott counts the bodies in disbelief.

How far gone had Smith been, to drown an orgy’s worth of people all in one go?

Angor turns towards the frame and meets Trott’s eyes. The victorious look on his face makes the selkie feel sick.

Trott looks away and wipes his hand over the newspaper to break the runes. He sets his pen aside and waits as the paper ripples back to normal.

Fear and worry boils in his gut like an oncoming storm. He thinks back to his talk with Angor before he went to hell, and the stack of case files the fallen angel professed to have.

There is no doubt in Trott’s mind that what he has seen are only a portion of the cases. Angor will come after Smith, wielding divine fury and dealing justice with bloodied hands. The only matter is when. And there’s nothing Trott can do to change that.

The selkie puts his head in his trembling hands and sighs with the weight of the inevitable.  
  


* * *

  


Smith’s car is shaking. The pedal is to the floor, and the scenery is nothing but a green blur as he drives towards the countryside.

He has to leave. He has to go- he has to.

He doesn’t know where, but he can’t be in the city anymore. He can’t fight the call, he can’t sit still and wait. Smith can’t sit around in the apartment, and he can’t stand being with them.

Why would they want him around? He’s nothing. Useless. Worthless. He doesn’t deserve them.

Tears blur his vision as they fall from his eyes. He wants so desperately to run. To run, and run, and run, and never stop until his legs give out. And if that doesn’t happen, he’ll run until the earth gives out from under _him._

Fuck, he doesn’t want to deal with the city and the way the people beckon. Out in the country, there’d be just himself and the river. He’d be alone- the way it used to be.

Maybe he was better off that way.

Maybe he’d feel something again, if he left.

Smith wants that so desperately, to feel something, anything other than this bone-crushing numbness, this aching misery.

He _wants_ to leave. That’s what he tells himself as he drives. The minutes turn to hours, and the sun starts shifting from one half of the sky to the other. His car keeps pushing farther and farther from the city, up towards the mountains, and away from his home. Forest passes by him, leafy green and rich with life.

Smith can feel the grief eating away at his stomach. The bonds he carries are like knots under his skin. The thought of not being able to go home, of his court, his...family coming home to an empty apartment, and waiting...for nothing...

It’s like salt in a gaping wound.

Smith can already feel Trott’s burning anger, the taste of betrayal in his stomach like a hot iron brand. He can feel Ross’ worry and concern, the feeling of abandonment and confusion like ice water in his veins. The tug of Sips, his mortal king’s disappointment and bitterness, weighing down his shoulders and making his knees quake.

He can’t do that to them. He can’t, no matter how much he can’t stand existing- and that hurts, to think that. It hurts to think he _isn’t_ living, but he isn’t, because living shouldn’t feel like this.

It hurts to stay.

But it hurts to go.

It would hurt them more, if he left, so Smith takes the quickest route home.

Guilt burns hot on the back of his neck. Insecurity seeps under his skin, making him itch with agitation.

 _Coward,_ the voices call to him, _you can’t do anything right._

Smith can’t run away from the voices, and he can’t run away from himself. He can’t leave his court, but he doesn’t think they’d want him to come back in such a state as this. With tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. A failure. A fuck-up.

 _Why can't you just be happy?_ He's sure they would ask him. _Can't you see we're happy as we are? What's wrong with you?_

_You haven't lost anything, what are you grieving for? You lost humanity long ago._

_Humanity is only a mask for your true nature. Get over yourself._

Smith tightens his grip on the steering wheel and swallows thickly. His throat hurts from crying and he lets out a weary sigh.

It's not that easy.

He can't make it go away. He's tried. He can't change how he feels. And in some weird, masochistic way he wants it to take him. He wants everything he feels to wring him out, run him through; end the cycle and leave him. But when the feelings disperse for a time, they leave him weak enough to stand, and nothing more.

They leave him no reprieve, save for regret. The feelings leave an empty shell behind, and Smith is so tired of feeling hollow.

There is an ache in his bones, digging in so deep that his ribs rattle with each staggered breath. The feelings bare down on his shoulders, pushing him, sinking him into the ground.

And how his knees tremble.

Smith drives back, hating the city, hating the country, hating himself. Just wanting to disappear completely, to just stop existing, stop having to deal with it all.

 _Dammit._ He sighs to himself. _Damn it all._

Smith drives with the fury of a stampede. The music pounds and his car roars loud down the highway. He wipes his hand across his face and tries to keep the emotions at bay.

_You can’t change a fucking thing. You can’t change anything._

_Stop trying to run from yourself._  
  


* * *

  


Ross swats the basketball from Sips’ grip and sends it bouncing away. The mortal king gives him a forced frown as he chases after it, complaining and groaning about getting too old for this shit.

Ross chuckles softly, watching Sips pluck the basketball from the grass. He dusts grass clippings off of it and throws it back towards Ross.

They’d been playing for the better part of an afternoon, throwing shit and missing more shots than sinking them. They were in the middle of another game of Horse with profane vocab words when Ross got bored and started screwing with Sips while he tried to shoot.

“Fucking hell Ross!” Sips snaps as Ross bats the ball out of his hands again. “Fuck this game, if you don’t want to play it!”

Ross laughs and chases after the ball himself this time, stopping it before it can reach the dew-covered grass. “Fuck Horse? You mean Smith?”

Sips sighs and stretches his arms above his head. “Smith can go fuck himself, I’m tired.”

Ross smiles, dribbling the ball back to the basket. He sinks a few easy lay-ups before turning back towards Sips.

The mortal king has his hands on his hips, and he watches Ross with a wry smile.

Ross bites his lip. He looks down at the ball in his hands and the stippled orange texture.

“Have you...noticed how Smith’s been lately?” Ross asks with a wince. He turns the basketball over and over in his hands. “He hasn’t been eating as regularly. He mostly pushed his food around his plate the other day.”

“I noticed, yeah.” Sips adds. “He’s been saying he isn’t hungry, but it’s not like him. Smith’s normally the first one to gripe about dinner.”

“I know he hasn’t been sleeping as much, either. And he’s been quieter, too...” The gargoyle mutters. “It’s just...not like him at all.”

Sips holds his hand out for the ball and Ross passes it. He watches the mortal king line up a shot on the free throw line. When he takes it, the ball arcs gracefully through the air. It drops through the hoop with a swish of the net, and Sips lowers his arms with a sigh. He gets ahold of the ball before it can bounce away again, and dribbles back to the line in the asphalt.

“Aren’t you worried?” Ross asks, frowning at the solemn look on Sips’ face.

“Of course I am. But...” Sips shrugs and spins the ball in his hands. “At the end of the day, we can only do so much.”

“We have to do _something._ ”

“Yeah... but I can’t picture him going to Magical Addictions Anonymous or some shit.”

Ross chuckles as Sips badly impersonates Smith’s voice. “‘Yeah, the name’s Smiffy and I’m addicted to fuck-murdering. I might have a tiny obsession with drowning my victims, it’s kind of a kink.’ ‘Hiiiii Smiiiiith.’”

Sips takes another shot.

"What _can_ we do, Sips?" Ross asks quietly.

The mortal king catches the rebound as it bounces off the backboard of the hoop. "I don't know." He admits, looking down at the flaking paint-lines on the asphalt. "I thought I might be onto something, but I'm no expert on magic and its consequences."

He lifts his head and then his hands to take another shot. The ball bounces off the rim and sideways, and Ross catches it on the second bounce.

“We’re going to have to be what we've always been, Ross- stability.” Sips sighs. He adjusts his hat on his head. “You keep an eye on Smith, make sure he eats and doesn't fall too deep into himself. I'll look after Trott and try to figure out something to help.”

Ross passes the ball back to Sips. “Trott’s been weird lately, too. Not the same weird as Smith, but he’s almost always in his office.”

Sips nods. “The thing with the fucking Norn took it’s toll on all of us. Smith's been a ball of nervous, frustrated energy, and Trott's been on edge, agitated, and stressed out.” The mortal king takes another shot and misses.

Ross collects the rebound. "What'd you and Trott talk about last night?" He diverts, taking a shot himself. The ball sinks into the net with a soft swish, and Sips guides it back towards the gargoyle’s hand.

"What makes you think we talked about anything?" He counters. He watches Ross slowly dribble the ball back towards the 3-point line.

Ross smiles softly. His tail swishes back and forth behind him, and Sips wonders how easily it could puncture their basketball. Probably extremely, considering the amount of other things he could use that tail for. Sips had seen it puncture things innocently and brutally, from balloons to bodies.

"Don't you always talk about things?" The gargoyle asks, taking a shot. The ball bounces off the backboard and into Sips’ hands.

Sips thinks on Ross' question. He sighs, and his mind flashes back to the night before.

  


_For a long time, the mortal king sits in the kitchen. Not moving, just staring without seeing._

_Trott paces slowly with a hand over his mouth. From one side of the kitchen to the other, towards the mess Smith left and painfully away._

_Some time later, Sips closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck me...” He sighs. He slowly gets up, and the wooden chair he was sitting in gives a protesting creak. The mortal king looks sullenly over the mess, winces painfully, and herds Trott out of the kitchen._

_Neither of them could bare to clean it up, for their own reasons._

_Sips sits down on the couch with a bottle of rum and two glasses for himself and Trott. He pours them each several fingers of liquor. The amber liquid crackles on the ice._

_“Fuck.” Trott starts, wringing his hands in his hair. He paces back and forth across the living room floor. “He can’t-” He chokes on the words, sucks in a shuddery breath, and swallows thickly before continuing. “He can’t be serious...”_

_Sips swirls his drink morosely and stares off into space unseeing. “About what part.” He murmurs, barely trying to converse._

_Trott’s feet shuffle across the carpet. “The three dozen.”_

_Sips says nothing._

_Trott curses again. He stops to pick up the drink Sips has poured him, and drinks about half before slamming it down on the coffee table. He resumes his pacing._

_“What if he doesn’t come back tonight...” Trott whispers. The utterance was so quiet it was almost to himself._

_Sips clears his throat. “Ross will keep him.” He mutters, but his assurance sounds emotionless. The possibility was real, and he couldn’t refute it. He doesn’t want to think..._

_The mortal king takes a heavy gulp of his drink and leans back into the couch. He stares at the wall above the tv. The apartment is silent without it on, but Sips knows, on or off, it doesn't make a damn difference._

_He can hear the clock in the kitchen ticking softly._

_He takes another swig of his drink._

_Over time, the liquid in their glasses lowers. Trott’s pacing slows to a meandering amble from one side of the room to another._

_“Control...I wasn't trying to- I don't...” Trott groans and puts his face in his hands. “I couldn’t 'control' his reckless behavior in the past with sex. That's what I meant.”_

_The selkie sucks in an uneasy breath and shakes his head._

_“Smith's going to make his own decisions regardless, I've always known, but...fuck.” He moves his hands away from his face with a heavy sigh. “How am I supposed to...fix this?”_

_Sips continues to stare at nothing. “You want what's best for him.” He says, swirling the liquor in his glass._

_Trott stops in front of the coffee table again. “That's not an answer, Sips.” He mumbles, throwing back his drink and finishing the rest. “Where the fuck do we go from here?” He rotates the tumbler in his hand, watching the last few drops of rum cling to the inside._

_Sips doesn’t meet Trott's eyes._

_“I don’t know, Trott.” He mumbles, with a small shake of his head. “I don’t have all the answers.”_

_Trott looks at Sips for a while, until the mortal king finally meets his gaze._

_The selkie’s eyes watch him as curiously as they always have. Bright blue eyes always inquiring, searching, looking for the answers._

_Sips looks away. He swallows thickly and stares hard at the cracks in the wall. If he stares hard enough, maybe he can see through them to the other side. It’s not a very convincing argument. But it keeps his mind from straying places he doesn’t want to revisit._

_Trott sighs and looks away. “I don’t expect you to know everything.” He says, rubbing his face with a hand. “Even I don’t, but..._

_“The comment I made...was supposed to be about how sex with us isn't going to change his temptation to drown people.” Trott continues. He sets his glass down on the coffee table with a delicate clink, and walks around slowly to flop next to Sips on the couch. “I've known that for years, because no matter how often we have sex he still goes out and fuck-murders. Sex with us isn't the same thing as sex with them, I know that.”_

_Sips nods and shifts his grip on the glass in his hand. “It's not about the sex when it comes to him fuck-murdering people.” He mutters. “I just figure, if anything's going to get Smith out of that headspace, sex might work.”_

_“I don’t know. I don’t want to force him into another headspace without his consent.” Trott clarifies, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Sure, we could have sex, but what’s it worth if he's still keyed up?”_

_Sips shrugs and looks down at his drink. “I figure it's worth a try, but I don't understand magic like you do. I don't know anything about it.”_

_Trott shakes his head. He purses his lips together into a thin line. “After that thing with the Norn...I don’t know how much control Smith really has over his magic. If he can’t make the difference between us and prey, and his magic starts to work its course...I don’t know if I’d be able to stop him.”_

_“I think you should give him more credit, Trott. He’s been drowning people for years, and now he’s stopped. He’s trying.”_

_“I just...” Trott trails off._

_“I know.” Sips takes a gulp of his drink and licks his lips. “But he stormed out like he did because he’s so tightly wound from all that pent-up energy. And we weren't listening or asking him what he wanted. We just talked over him.”_

_Trott sighs bitterly. "Regardless of me wanting his input, I didn’t ask it. Regardless of what he wants, I always tell him what to do.” The selkie slumps further into the couch, throwing his feet up onto the coffee table with a thud. “Yeah...no wonder I'm a hypocrite.”_

  


“Not this time.” Sips answers Ross in present day. “We talked a little, but...it didn’t accomplish anything. Not really.” Trott had fallen asleep. Sips had finished his drink and settled Trott in bed, before he retook his spot on the couch to wait.

The mortal king raises the basketball in his hands and takes a shot at the hoop. The ball bounces jarringly off the rim. Ross catches the rebound and tosses it in with a swish.

“What do you think Trott’s been working on? That he’s getting so stressed over?” Ross asks.

Sips shrugs and collects the rebound. “Could be anything. Could be his work at the shop, could be this crap with Smith, could be talking to other fae and striking deals. He probably knows more than we do about the big picture around here, Ross.”

Ross frowns, confused. "What picture? A mural?"

"No. The city is what I mean. I'm not the only king of a fae court, after all."

"Oh. Right..." Ross sighs. He watches Sips make a slow walk towards the basket.

"Sips?" He asks.

"Hm?" The mortal king doesn’t look up from his dribbling.

"What happens after?"

Sips tucks the basketball under his arm and looks up.

Childlike eyes look back at him, but the face bears centuries. In front of him stands a gargoyle in gym sweats and one of Smith's old burgundy t-shirts. Human, but not. Magic, but stone.

"After what?" Sips asks, swallowing thickly. He already knows the words that are going to be said.

"After you."

"...I don't know." Sips admits, looking away, tracking the lines in the concrete with his eyes. "That eager to get rid of me, Ross?" He cracks with a wry, bitter smile.

Ross says nothing.

Sips looks up and sees the gargoyle chewing his lip.

"Oh, Ross..." The mortal king sighs. "C'mere."

Ross shuffles obediently over. When he's close enough to touch, Sips' ruffles his hair, fingertips brushing his horns.

"I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, Ross." He smiles.

Ross sighs. "But...none of us know that for certain, do we?"

"I'll be here tomorrow."

"How do you-"

"I don’t have work tomorrow, and if you think for once I'm getting out of my pajamas..." Sips trails off.

Ross chuckles.

"Well...you'd be wrong, wouldn't you?"

"I guess so." He smiles half-heartedly.

Sips smiles back at him. He moves his hand from Ross' hair to his shoulder, sweaty palm sliding across his cool marble skin. "Don't think about it like that, Ross." He whispers, leaning into Ross' embrace with the basketball between them. "Don't worry about the future."

Ross’ arms slide around Sips’ waist, and his glass tail wraps around the mortal king’s leg.

“I just...wonder what the future holds for us.” He mumbles, leaning his chin on Sips’ shoulder. “I've existed through consistency and change. I've lived a life of solitude and togetherness. But I've never been able to predict the future. After all that’s happened recently, I can't help but wonder what'll happen when it's over.”

Sips doesn’t have the words to explain. He himself isn’t sure. He holds Ross a little closer.

“If something happens to all of you...” Ross asks, voice quiet. “...what happens to me?”

Sips hides his face for a moment in the fabric of Ross’ shirt, until he can find the words to speak again. “Sometimes...” He sighs wearily, pulling his head back to look Ross in the eye. “There are things we never get the answers to.”

“Fuck that. It’s not fair!” Ross stammers.

Sips smiles sadly at the frown on Ross’ face. “Nothing is. Fairness was never something promised. Nothing is easy, Ross, and nothing is forever.”

The words are bitter on his tongue. Fuck, how can he tell him that, Sips will never know. It hurts to look at this being of centuries and tell him nothing is forever, that nothing truly lasts. No wonder Ross has such a hard time believing it...

The kiss Ross gently presses to his lips tastes of _I don’t want to lose you._

 _I know,_ Sips says back, holding onto Ross tightly. But the truth of the matter is that none of them can change the inevitable.

“Don’t think about it like that, Ross.” The mortal king says quietly as he pulls away. “I know it’s hard not to...but worrying doesn’t help anything. Don’t worry about what’s to come- we’ll figure it out later.”

"What do I worry about, then?" The gargoyle asks cheekily.

Sips forces a chuckle. "Worry about what we're having for dinner."

Ross' laugh rumbles against his cheek, and Sips presses a kiss to his neck.

 _Don't waste time over-thinking the inevitable. You don't want to miss out on the life you could be living, wasting time and squandering your hopes._  
  


* * *

  


Half an hour from the city limits, Smith slows down. Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids, and without thinking, he finds himself parking on the side of the road by the river. He gets out of his car and hops the guardrails between the road and the woods.

On the outskirts of the city, the river twists between the forest trees. Smith climbs down the embankment into the woods and walks until he can't hear the cars on the road anymore.

The river has thinned out here, only a few feet deep, and it’s rusty brown from runoff. Smith sits beside the bank. The wind blows his hair in his face, and he lays down until he can see the dull blue sky past the trees.

The clouds roll over themselves, promising rain. Smith tries to find shapes but sees none, and closes his eyes instead.

All he can hear is the sound of the river on the rocks, and if he lays still enough he can almost pretend...

 _Pretend what?_ He asks himself. _That you don't exist? What good is there in pretending? What is that supposed to solve?_

Memories are brought to mind, of the many kills he's made in his life. From the very beginning with bodies in the river, to the most recent when he had forgotten his nights. All the pretty faces he's drowned, all the lives he has taken, they coalesce into a sea of nameless faces.

But it doesn't help to think about that.

Smith takes a deep, shaky breath, and lets it out again. His phone buzzes in his pocket some time later, but he doesn't bother reaching for it.

 _You're not as alone as you think._ He reminds himself, but the words echo inside him.

If his court really needs him, or wants him, they'd track him down.

Smith knows they won't come looking now, not unless he was gone for days. But the longer he stays by the river, watching behind closed eyelids as the sun goes down, he knows they'll worry.

That's why he didn't leave in the first place. That's why he turned his car around and headed back.

It's hard for Smith to convince himself to go home. Both worlds don't feel right anymore. His past remains his past, and his present can't change. But he doesn't know where that leaves him in his future.

Smith dozes off until the sky turns black. He wakes up with a crick in his neck and a sore back from sleeping on rocks.

“That's the last time I listen to a fortune cookie...” He grumbles to himself as he gets to his feet and dusts himself off.

The moon isn't out tonight, and the clouds from earlier make the sky even darker. The night is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of crickets. Decades ago, he thought the sound cacophonous, until he heard the sound of 5 o'clock traffic.

The city calls him back. The itch to hunt makes his skin tingle, but he has to head home instead. Smith watches fireflies flit over the river water, and wonders how he got so attached. Kelpies pride themselves on freedom, and yet he's bound to something other than himself. Concrete and neon lights, mortal breath, and thumping baselines.

 _Not just that._ He reminds himself, looking in the direction of where he knows home to be.

_A selkie, a gargoyle, and a mortal king._

_You don’t regret that- do you?_

Smith takes out his phone, checking his messages and squinting at the brightness of the screen in the dark. Several "Where are you?"'s stare back at him, as well as a "What do you want for dinner?" and a few missed calls.

Feeling morose, Smith sighs and puts his phone back into his pocket. He turns his back on the river and returns to his car.  
  


* * *

  


Trott’s not really watching the late-night movie Ross has on. Whatever it is has alien abductions or something. He lost track of the plot already, lost in his own thoughts.

Ross himself has fallen asleep with his sketchbook in his lap. Trott smiles at the sight. He moves Ross’ sketchbook from its precarious position, looking at the pencil-sketches of UFO-like buildings, futuristic and modern designs.

He’d make a really good architect. It would be neat to slip some plans into the city business office, see what they do with them. But that would be Ross’ decision to make, if he was interested. And ideas were just ideas. He drew nothing but cathedrals early on, and Trott had asked him if he missed the church.

“Not really. Just thinking.” Ross had murmured in response, sketching thin lines across the page. “You can appreciate the past without missing it. Just because it was painful doesn’t mean you have to hate everything.”

Trott still wasn’t sure what to think of that. Ross’ ideas were his own, and he could do what he wanted with them. The selkie had a hard time wondering if this was the way things were meant to be. Things were too good to be real sometimes, meeting Smith, finding Ross, crowning Sips. Some days the world seemed as thin as paper, and other days, as tough as concrete.

Trott sets Ross’ sketchbook aside and goes back to picking at his nails. Maybe he’d buy Ross a Star Wars Lego set, come winter. Encourage Ross’ love of detail, tiny things, and building all in one. It would keep him busy during the cold days they would be cooped up in the apartment.

Trott wishes Ross was awake, so they could talk about nothing, ease a bit of the tension Trott carries. Or that he could go to bed himself. He’s so tired after a long day at work, but staying up waiting for Smith to come home was nothing new.

Sips has gone to bed already, professing exhaustion from the fresh air and the exercise he got while out playing basketball with Ross. Trott knows Sips can’t stand waiting. The mortal king would rather be blissfully asleep than sitting there worrying. Sips _could_ be lying awake in bed, but it’s unlikely- he had long ago mastered the art of falling asleep quickly.

The sudden sound of Smith’s keys in the lock makes Trott let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He turns to look over the back of the couch as Smith walks through the door.

“Hey.” Trott greets quietly over the sound of the tv. He leaves out the ‘sunshine’ because Smith looks far from it. There are bags under his eyes, his shoulders are slumped, and there’s a drawn expression on his face. He looks about as tired as Trott feels.

“Hi.” Smith’s voice is soft, hardly audible over the volume of the tv.

“Where you been?” Trott asks gently. “You missed dinner."

Smith removes his boots and jacket silently, putting them in their proper place with slow and labored movements. “I thought I’d visit my folks. I didn’t, though.”

Trott watches Smith with a worried frown as the kelpie walks over. Tiredness seeps from his limbs and he perches on the other side of the couch from Trott. Smith stares at the tv, with his chin propped up on his hand, not meeting Trott’s questioning gaze.

He looks so mellow. Quiet, and sullen. It’s unusual. It means there’s something wrong, but even so...Trott can’t ask him what it is. He wants to know where Smith’s been, and what he’s done, and why he’s acting this way. But he’s terrified of knowing.

“Your folks?” Trott asks.

Smith confirms with a nod.

He’d never said anything about visiting his parents before...

“Is that something you’d like to do?” Trott asks further.

“What do you mean, something I’d like to do?” Smith repeats back. No hint of emotion crosses his face.

Trott swallows thickly. “Would you like to visit them?”

Smith shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, does it?” He asks, the question hardly a murmur against the backdrop of the tv.

Trott turns the volume down and gives Smith all of his attention. “It does matter if you want to.” He says with conviction. “You could go visit if you really wanted, sunshine. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“That’s not what I- I don’t think it would help much if I did, is all.” Smith swallows thickly. His eyes trace unknown patterns in the tv screen. “So, no- it doesn’t matter. It’s not going to help any.”

What it wouldn’t help was left unspoken.

Trott watches Smith in the light of the tv screen, blue-green-red lighting his face in angular shadows. “You’ve been uncannily quiet as of late, Smith.” He starts again.

Smith says nothing.

Trott frowns. Why would he want to leave? Doubtless, Smith had been out driving. Wanting to get away from the city...and Trott couldn’t blame him. The temptation must have been too strong...

The selkie pushes back the thoughts telling him otherwise.

“Maybe we do need to get away. Take a break from the city for a bit.” Trott hums.

“Like a vacation?” Smith asks softly.

“Yeah. Maybe a vacation is exactly what we need.”

There’s half a flicker of amusement across Smith’s face, but too soon it disappears.

“Where would you like to go?” Trott asks him.

“Doesn’t matter to me.” Smith shrugs and looks over at Ross, who is still asleep at Trott’s feet. “‘s going to be new for Ross, isn’t it?”

“Most likely.” Trott replies with a smile.

“Someplace nice.” Smith says like an afterthought, looking away. “We could still go out to the countryside. Go camping or something?”

Trott chuckles. “Good luck convincing Sips to sleep in a tent.”

Smith shrugs again and leans back into the couch. He curls in on himself, tucking his legs up and folding his arms across his chest. “Just an idea.” He mutters, looking dejected. The tone of his voice is clipped, like the words were chopped into pieces as he spoke them.

“Sunshine?” Trott pries. “Smith?”

It’s a long beat of silence before Smith hums in response.

“We could go camping.” The selkie amends. “I’m sure Ross would love to.”

Smith scoffs. "Since when have you ever wanted to go camping, Trott?"

Trott shrugs. "It'd be like the old times, wouldn't it?"

Smith hums softly. There's a quirk to his mouth reminiscent of a smile but he continues to stare blankly at the tv.

“Well...” Trott sighs and stands up. “Come on, sunshine. Why don’t we get to bed, yeah?”

Smith says nothing, doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are still trained on the tv, but Trott’s sure he doesn’t give two shits about the latest smoothie blender.

Trott purses his lips together. He shakes Ross’ shoulder to rise him from his sleep. “Bed, Ross. Come on.”

Ross groans as he stands, makes a few noises when he sees Smith is back, and then shuffles loudly down the hall towards the bedroom.

Trott turns off the tv, but Smith doesn’t move from the couch. Trott even stands in front of him, but the kelpie still doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Smith, come on. I can tell how tired you are.” He reaches for Smith’s hand to tug him up, but Smith shies away from his touch.

“Go on to bed, Trott.” He murmurs, avoiding the selkie’s gaze.

Trott balks in shock.

“Smith-”

“Just go. I’ll be there in a bit.”

Trott watches the bob of Smith’s adam’s apple as he swallows. The kelpie is staring hard at the carpet beneath his feet.

 _Why won’t you look at me?_ Trott thinks incredulously. _Why are you ignoring me? What have I done, that you’re acting like this?_

He reaches out again, one more time.

“ _Trott-_ ” Smith cuts off whatever he was going to say with heavy sigh.

Trott’s hand hovers over Smith’s.

“...please.” Smith whispers raggedly. “ _Just go to bed._ ” His shoulders shake as if he’s cold. From where he’s curled around himself, Trott can’t see his face. He’s hiding behind a hand and his other is clasped upon his knee like a starfish clinging to a rock.

Slowly, Trott pulls his hand back to his side. “Fine.” He states. The word sounds harsher than he intends.

“Trott...” Smith whispers, voice cracking on the syllable.

The selkie shakes his head. “It’s fine. When you’re ready, then.” He murmurs.

He turns his back, and goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> club: http://marcoaverde.tumblr.com/post/107380444064/lost-in-soho  
> http://astrhoes.tumblr.com/post/128431307947/aries-sun-scorpio-moon-aqua-rising
> 
> http://theneurocasuals.tumblr.com/post/129745483953  
> You think you deserve this pain, but you don’t.  
> Smith
> 
> http://cnydocyte.tumblr.com/post/126379400611/it-feels-hallow-here-i-tap-my-hand-on-my-chest
> 
> http://chris-horizxns.tumblr.com/post/134641256929  
> Sips


	4. the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 4 cws: fae manipulation, murder, death, dead bodies, semi-public sex, knives, blood, arguing/fighting; mention of drowning, suicidal ideation; one use of a gendered slur?  
> I wasn’t sure if I needed to tag graphic violence for this chapter, because it’s nowhere near the same graphic level as damned guilty deeds, but *shrug*. ah well.
> 
> playlist for to be or not to be, The Thousand Natural Shocks:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5ZDKsjtx240E1fjJaAhYnR
> 
> specific songs for this chapter:  
> Ruled by Secrecy- Muse  
> My Friend Of Misery- Metallica  
> Are You Hurting The One You Love?- Florence + the Machine
> 
> want to reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/to-be-or-not-to-be-ghostofgatsby
> 
> full tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/the-thousand-natural-shocks-playlist

In the humid twilight, in a back alley behind a pizza place, Smith stands. He can hear the traffic and buzz of the city around him, but in the alley, it’s quiet.

His heart thuds against his ribcage as he sucks in panicked breaths. His vision swims in front of him. The knife falls from his grip, clattering metallically to the bloodstained ground.

He’s failed himself again.

He’s fucked it all up, and this time, there’s blood.

Smith’s killed people before, but Trott’s the one with the penchant for knives, not him.

And this- this is different. This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t survival; this wasn’t him trying to protect himself or his court.

This was a ruin.

Smith stares down at the body by his feet. Blood stains the front of his shirt. It’s runs down his arms, and drips from his shaking fingertips. The smell of copper and death permeates the air, and he feels sick.

He glances up to check the alley, but no one’s around. No one saw- he’s lucky.

Smith swallows thickly and turns back to his kill.

He just couldn’t help himself...

He was driving out to get dinner, and when he stopped for pizza, a young man walked out the door of the shop. It took only seconds and Smith had made his mark, quirked his brow, and gave a charming smile.

It was simply too easy. He didn’t know what he was doing until it was too late to turn back.

“That for me?” He had asked the young man as he walked the short distance up to him.

“What? The pizza?” The young man had shaken his head, confused and being reeled in by the kelpie’s charm.

“Sure, I’ll take that, too.” Smith grinned. He left the free pizza on top of his car before leading the young man down the alleys with a hand on the back of his neck.

 _You can’t drown them, you can’t._ His mind nagged, but the dark corners replaced the reminder with another thought: _You can still kill them._

Smith fucked the young man up against a dumpster, chasing the high he so desperately craved. He’s in too large of an area, not enclosed, to drown him. But he had a knife in his pocket and it was quicker to slit the man’s throat.

He struggled. In Smith’s preoccupied frenzy, the cut was sloppy, imprecise. He hardly noticed the blood spatter- it’s the sound of the man’s death, without water to dull it, that made Smith’s high snap into withdrawal.

The rush of endorphins turned sour. Smith divested the body from his embrace as if it was burning him, and it hit the ground with a resounding thump.

Using a knife is not the same as drowning. Knives are supposed to be quick and brutal, and his river is slow and deep. It’s not the same, and it does nothing to sate him.

“Fuck...” Smith whispers to himself. The blood is warm on his hands, sticky and dark red in the shadows of the alley. The body lies limp before him as it bleeds out onto the concrete.

 _What the fuck do I do now?_ Smith thinks, tossing the body into the dumpster he’d fucked against. He looks back at the bloodstain it left behind and shakes his head.

_I’m falling apart at the seams..._

Smith picks up his knife, dangling the hilt between his fingertips and watching the blood drip off the point. He wipes it clean on his already-stained shorts with shaking hands, and tries to wipe his hands clean too. Smith’s covered in blood, and his stomach drops when he realizes he has to go home like this.

He burns the bloodstain away with a whiff of magic in lighter fluid. He cautiously returns to his car and tries to pretend things are alright.

  


“Pizza delivery for the Garbage Court.” Smith jokes with no humor as he walks through the door. “Hope you guys like sausage and green pepper, because that’s what I got.”

Ross and Sips look at him over the back of the couch.

The sight of their widened eyes at his appearance makes Smith’s heart ache. He stares down at the box in his hands and swallows thickly. There are bloody fingerprints smudged onto the cardboard. The feeling of the dried blood on his arms makes his skin crawl.

“Smith?” Trott walks out of the kitchen and into the living room. His dark gaze wavers between concern and suspicion. “Why are you covered in blood?”

Smith looks up but avoids Trott’s eyes and shrugs. “Murdered a guy.”

Trott blinks. “For fucking _pizza?_ ” He asks, his voice low and biting.

Smith stares down at the pizza box again without saying anything. He can feel Sips and Ross staring at him from the couch.

“Smith.”

His name from Trott’s lips is like a shard of ice, sharp and cold, and devoid of affection. He slowly adjusts his gaze, this time meeting Trott’s ocean-eyed glare.

The selkie folds his arms across his chest.

“What the fuck is wrong with you.”

The quiet tone of Trott’s bewilderment makes the words hurt all the worse. Smith tightens his grip on the pizza box.

“Did you kill them in broad daylight?” Trott asks.

He shakes his head. “The alley.”

“Next to the shop? You’re lucky no one saw.”

Smith shifts the pizza box in his grasp and hears the contents slide around. “Look, Trott, I-”

“Shut up, Smith.” Trott snaps. “I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses.”

Smith starts minutely at Trott’s quiet, bitter anger. Trott’s face is impassive, his body posture taut, his eyes burning.

“You didn’t even _think_ , did you.” Trott sneers. “Saw something you just _had to have_ , and leapt after it.”

Smith swallows thickly. “No, I didn’t think.” He admits. He wriggles one of his fingers under the lid of the pizza box and glances over at Ross and Sips on the couch. Ross moves to get up, but Sips stops him.

“Well, that’s nothing new, is it Smith?” Trott scoffs, drawing the kelpie’s attention back to him. “Imagine that, you fucking thinking before you act.”

“It’s...just a pizza guy, Trott.” Sips says from the couch. His brows are furrowed in concern. His hand is steady on Ross’ shoulder, silently telling him to wait and see how Smith and Trott’s argument plays out.

Ross’ tail swishes back and forth restlessly. He looks equally worried, and his eyes flick between Trott’s angry stance and Smith’s bloodstained state.

Trott shakes his head at Sips’ comment, but doesn’t look over at him. “It’s _not_ just a pizza guy. Not _just_ a DJ in the shower, not _just_ -”

“Wha- you’re going to drag all that up?” Smith stammers, flabbergasted. “Right now?”

“What’d you do with the body?” Trott counters.

“I...” Smith grinds his teeth. “A dumpster. I put it in a _fucking dumpster_ , okay? I didn’t drown them, I just fucked them and slit their throat-”

Trott seethes, eyes boring into Smith’s. “ _Why_ did you leave behind a body?”

Smith shrugs tiredly and gestures with the pizza box in one hand. “Does it matter?” He sighs.

“It does when you keep doing it!” Trott snaps.

“The fuck are you saying? Every other time was without memories.” Smith says between his teeth.

“The DJ wasn’t.”

“One other kill?” Smith groans in exasperation. “What does that have to do with the fact that-”

“Maybe you would have killed them all anyway, memory or not.”

The look on Smith’s face could have shattered glass. He feels as if the floor fell out from under him.

“What are you-” He stammers loudly. “I didn't know what I was _doing! I couldn't remember what I did every night!_ ”

“And how do you know that it might not have happened regardless?” Trott asks slowly.

Smith grinds his teeth together.

“You were already on that track.” The selkie continues. “Losing your memories only sped it up.”

“ _Shut up, Trott._ ” Smith snarls.

Trott shakes his head. “No, you needed to hear that.”

Smith tosses the pizza box onto the floor with a muffled thump and runs a hand through his hair with a growl. “ _Fucking- I know what I've done!_ ” He shouts, gesturing at himself. “You don’t need to tell me I’ve fucked up when I already know it!”

“You don’t know what more it could have cost.” Trott replies. "Don’t you know what you're up against?"

"I know _damn_ well, Trott.” Smith growls in warning.

“Then prove it. You _said_ you were going to _stop._ ”

“I’m _trying!_ ” Smith protests, holding his hands up placatingly. “For fuck’s _sake!_ Can’t you see that?”

“It’s not trying if you fucking give in.” Trott mutters darkly. He glances pointedly at Smith’s bloodstained appearance. “Just from the state of you, Smith, you’re not trying enough.”

Smith snaps his mouth shut, glaring. “Not enough?” He says, voice trembling over the words. “Not _fucking_ enough?” He clenches his hands shut tight into fists and shakes his head. “Watch what your saying...”

The threat comes out weak.

“ _I_ better watch it?” Trott scoffs and raises an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one who-”

“Who are you to speak as if you don’t give in to old demons, Trott?” Smith inquires, voice pained.

Trott purses his lips together.

Smith sighs through his teeth. “Dammit, why don’t you believe me when I say _I’m trying?_ ”

“I thought this recklessness was going to end.” Trott mutters. His tone sounds casual, like he hasn’t been arguing with Smith for the past few minutes.

Smith stares back at him forlornly. “I know I fucked up. I know, okay?” He whispers. “I’m _sorry._ ”

Trott shakes his head and shoves past Smith to get to the door.

“Next time you fuck up...don’t say you’re sorry.” Trott advises as he opens the door and steps outside. He pauses with his hand on the door knob, head turned away from Smith while he finishes his thought. “Your apologies have lost all meaning to me, so don’t waste your breath.”

The words are a slap to the face, and the door shutting in front of him feels like a punch to the gut. Smith squeezes his eyes shut tight and grinds his teeth together. The bond between himself and Trott is cold, so painfully cold it hurts like a raw wound inside him.

He’s fucked it up again, he’s fucked it all up, and he _hates_ it.

There’s shuffling from behind the couch. Someone is walking over to him- Sips, by the sound of the steps. With Ross not far behind.

The mortal king tries to stroke Smith’s cheek when he reaches him, but the kelpie flinches away.

Smith hears the sound of shuffling fabric and a zipper being pulled as Sips puts on a jacket, and the sound of Ross picking up the pizza box from the floor.

“I’ll look after Trott.” Sips says, voice fraught with tension. “Ross, you look after Smith. Get him cleaned up, would you?”

There’s a beat of silence and then Sips leaves, too.

The apartment falls impossibly quieter than before.

Smith focuses on the breaths he takes and the ticking of the wall clock in the kitchen, and ignores everything else. He can barely hold the thoughts down- they override all else as they scream at him.

_Now look what you’ve done. Look what you’ve done, you fucking piece of shit._

_You’ve done it again. Done it again and look where it’s got you- back to fucking square one._

_What a disgrace. All you do is fuck things up!_

_What are you worth, if all you do is fail? Nothing. Not a single fucking thing._

_You’re worth nothing to them._  
  


* * *

  


Ross has to lead Smith to the shower and clean him up himself. The kelpie is so still, unwilling to move. Ross wonders if this is what he was like, when he was less human and more gargoyle, when he was slow to adjust to human routines.

They’re in the shower for a long time, to scrub all the blood off of Smith. The red flakes off, but it leaves behind a rusty stain that takes a heavy amount of soap to clean. It had been a bad day for Smith to wear shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt, that was for sure.

Ross hid the bloodstained clothes in the trashcan in the bathroom, once he’d peeled them off of Smith. Trott would probably burn them later. Anything that had a trace of their blood on it, they destroyed. Leaving blood behind after fights could get them into trouble, and even though the blood wasn’t Smith’s own, he was the one to spill it. They’d better burn the clothes anyway, just to make sure.

Smith says nothing while Ross works. Ross softly tells him his actions before he does them, making sure his movements are slow and gentle. As he scrubs under Smith’s fingernails and down his shins, he mutters on about nothing. He figures Smith needs something else to focus on, other than what has transpired.

Smith keeps his eyes shut the entire time.

Once they’ve cleaned up, Ross dries them both off. He’s combing through Smith’s hair when the kelpie finally moans and moves his hands up to his face.

“Smith?” The gargoyle’s hand stills above Smith’s head. “Are you alright?”

Smith has the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. “I can’t- _fuck_ \- I can’t do anything fucking right.” His voice is choked and muffled behind his hands.

Ross furrows his brow. “What are you talking about?” He places the comb he was using on top of the toilet, plastic on ceramic making a soft clink.

“ _I fucked up again, I’m nothing but a fuck-up!_ ” Smith shouts through his teeth. His hands are shaking where they clutch at his face. “Dammit...damn it all.” He hunches over where he’s sitting on the edge of the tub, and water drips off his hair and onto the tiled floor as he shakes.

Ross kneels down in front of him. “You’re not a fuck-up, Smith. What makes you think that?”

“I can’t do _anything right._ ” He mumbles.

“Sure you can.”

“Like what?”

Ross places a hand on Smith’s knee and strokes his thumb over the soap-softened skin. “You’re good to us, Smith. Me, Trott, and Sips.”

Smith lets out a broken laugh. “Yeah, right. I’m not good to you, I’m a menace. Trott probably hates me for fucking things over again.”

Ross rubs his hand warmly up and down Smith’s leg, shaking his head. “He’s just angry right now. He’ll get over it.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Smith asks, voice sullen.

“He will.”

Smith lets out a shaky breath. “You can’t know that. You can’t possibly know that.” _How do you know if he’ll forgive me this time? It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, but..._

“He will.” Ross says adamantly, drawing Smith’s hands away from his face and his mind to the present. “I know he will.”

Smith shakes his head. “Why do I always screw things up? Why do I destroy everything I’ve built?”

Ross chooses his words carefully. “It’s...it’s because it’s so difficult. It’s going to be a long process, to change things. But I know you can.”

“I keep failing.”

“You have to keep working at it, Smith. No matter how many times you fail.” He squeezes Smith’s fingers gently and slides his hands around to hold Smith’s in his grasp.

The kelpie sighs aggravatedly. “I don’t understand. Why...why do I always screw things up? Trott’s pissed, and Sips is probably disappointed-”

“About the _pizza_ , probably.” Ross rolls his eyes. “The only reason he left was to go after Trott.”

“-and you...”

“I’m not mad at you, Smith.” Ross placates him, comfortingly rubbing his thumbs along the inside of Smith’s wrists.

Smith frowns. “But you’re worried about me.”

“So are Sips and Trott.”

“But I’ve screwed things up, again. _Why is it always like this?_ ”

He looks so lost.

“You can fix things, Smith. I know you can.” Ross says, brushing away stray water droplets from Smith’s wet hair. “I believe in you. You’ll find a way to fix this.”

“It’s more like you all fix me.” He mumbles. “I fall every time, and you guys have to pick up the pieces again. _I’m_ the broken one, Ross-”

“ _We’re all broken, not just you._ You’ve said it before: we’re all broken but we’re made to fit together.”

“I just...I don’t know, anymore.” Smith says to the cracks in the tiled floor. “I don’t know who I am, and I don’t know if I’m a monster. I don’t know if this life is repairable or not.”

Ross frowns and gives Smith’s hands a gentle squeeze. “Things are going to be okay, Smith. And we’ll stick by you, even after the end.” He says reassuringly, watching Smith think. “Things are going to be okay, they really will. If you lost your faith in that, I’ll believe it for you. Until you find yourself again.”

Smith looks up hesitantly to meet Ross’ eyes. “Ross?”

“Yeah?”

The kelpie’s eyes are red and bloodshot from sleepless nights and crying.

“Can you do something for me?” He scrambles into a kneeling position in front of Ross, barely avoiding knocking his knees into the gargoyle’s. “Just for tonight.”

“What?” Ross asks, confused.

“Tell me what to do.” Smith pleads, squeezing Ross’ hands back. His eyes search Ross’ for validation. “Like Trott does.”

“Like...Trott does?”

“Give me directions. Anything, something. So I can get my mind off of things.”

“Smith...” The gargoyle sighs, grip tightening on Smith’s hands.

“I can be good, I- I promise. I swear, just...” He nuzzles Ross’ face. “I know I’m a fuck-up, just _please..._ ” _Help me._

“Smith, I- I’m not...I can’t-” Ross stumbles over his words. “You can’t just make that decision now. Not like this.”

“ _Fuck if I can’t!_ ” Smith’s strangled scream is sharp in his ear.

Ross lets go of his hands to wraps his arms around him. “I can’t be that for you, Smith. Maybe if I really think about it, but not now. I can’t do that when you’re in this headspace-”

“ _Ross_...Ross, please.”

Ross shakes his head. “Not when you’re upset.”

“ _Please, Ross..._ ” Smith’s hands clench so hard his fists shake.

“Come here.” Ross pulls Smith into his lap, smooths his hands over the kelpie’s back and through his hair. Smith tucks his head under Ross’ chin, and Ross wraps his tail around Smith’s waist to make sure he stays put. “We’re going to sit here-”

“But-”

“Shush.” Ross swallows thickly, chews on his lips and thinks of the questions Trott always asks him. “You going to be good?” He questions tentatively.

He feels Smith nod against his neck.

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Then we’re going to sit here and wait for Trott and Sips to come home. Alright?”

Another nod.

Ross kisses the top of Smith’s head and pets his still damp hair. “Just...listen to me talk, Smith. You can listen, can’t you?”

Nod.

“Good...” Ross sighs. “You’re not a fuck-up, Smith...you’re not a failure. Trott doesn’t hate you; none of us do. We care about you very much. You’re important to us, and everything’s going to be okay.”

He lets a few minutes pass, hearing the shaky inhale-exhale of Smith’s breath, and then starts his mantra over again. “You’re not a fuck-up, Smith. You’re not a failure...” Ross soothes him as gently as he can, petting his hair and holding him tightly. “...Everything’s going to be okay.”

Smith shivers in his embrace, and Ross repeats his last sentence over again.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Smith...I promise you.” The gargoyle whispers, pressing a kiss to Smith’s temple. “I promise you, it will...”  
  


* * *

  


“Trott!”

“Fuck off, Sips.”

“No.”

“ _Fuck. Off._ ”

Sips pants heavily as he finally catches up to Trott’s speed-walk. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers out of you.” He mutters. “You shouldn’t have said what you did.”

“So he should have murdered the pizza guy?” Trott throws over his shoulder.

“No, but-”

“He’s going right back to what he did before!”

Sips sighs. Trott walks a few paces ahead of him with his hands clenched at his sides. His shoulders are tense, anger in the frame of his posture as he walks. Sips follows him, but he doesn’t know where Trott’s going.

“Can’t you see he’s trying?” He asks.

Trott scoffs. “He doesn’t give two shits.”

“ _Bullshit._ ” Sips snaps in reply. “If Smith didn’t care about us, he wouldn’t be trying at all.”

“Yeah, right.”

Trott’s tone is dismissive, callous.

The mortal king frowns. “Why don’t you believe that, when it’s the truth?” He asks. “He screwed up, sure- I’m not saying he didn’t. But you shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“Maybe he deserved it.”

“You can’t fucking say that!” Sips stammers incredulously. “Trott, you didn’t see how he _looked_ when you left.”

Sips tries to catch Trott’s arm, but the selkie yanks it from Sips’ grip and walks faster.

“Why the fuck can’t I? I can say what I want, Sips, and nothing you tell me is going to change that.”

“Fucking hell, Trott-” Sips snaps. “He’s _depressed!_ You can’t say that kind of shit to him!”

Trott’s feet stutter in their movements and come to staggering halt.

Sips finally catches up to him. He places his hand on Trott’s shoulder and spins him around to face him.

“D- what...?” Trott blinks up at him in confusion.

The mortal king sighs bitterly and drops his hand from Trott’s shoulder. "Dammit, how blind can you get? You’re so fucking oblivious in your anger! For all that you gripe about, you sure are dense sometimes."

" _The fuck did you say to me?_ " Trott balks. His gaze immediately turns back from inquisitive to icy.

“Don’t tell me you can’t see it.” Sips shakes his head. “I’ve been there, I know what it’s like. Some days you think things might be okay, but some days you wish you were buried six feet under the ground. It’s _obvious_ , with Smith.”

Trott shakes his head furiously. He steps back from Sips. "I didn't want to believe-" He stammers.

" _It's not about you, don't you get that?!_ " Sips replies sharply. His eyes bore into Trott’s, gray storm clouds over smog. They hold a mortal past and an unspoken grief within their depths.

Trott's shocked into silence by Sips' outburst. He's never seen the mortal king so perturbed. He clears his throat and starts again. “When we fought-”

“No, that was all on you.”

Trott gives him a glare for that, and Sips glares right back.

“That was _all you_ , and you can’t deny that.” The mortal king states. He folds his arms across his chest.

“ _Shut the fuck up, Sips._ ” Trott growls.

Sips doesn’t back down, standing in front of him with his feet planted shoulder-length apart. The look he gives Trott is one of grim disappointment, but also fierce determination to settle the score.

Trott’s fingers flex. His hands twitch where the knives are hidden under his belt.

Sips notices. He rolls his eyes and scoffs at the movement. “I’m not fucking scared of you, Trott.” He mutters.

“You should go home.” The selkie says gruffly. “Go the _fuck_ home, Sips. I don’t need your advice.”

“Bullshit.” Sips scoffs. “I told you, I’m not fucking scared of you.”

“You should be.”

Sips outright laughs. “Yeah? Yeah, okay. Sure.” He laughs again. “That’s bullshit, Trott, and you know it. If you really wanted to hurt me you already would have. And I know full well you’re holding yourself back like a viper prepared to strike.”

“What makes you think I won’t?” Trott snarls back.

“Because _I’m_ the viper, bitch.” Sips snaps, tugging at the brim of his hat pointedly. “Now shut your trap and _listen._ ”

Trott purses his lips together. Sips steps closer, until they’re a few inches apart.

"Smith isn't _blaming you_. Don't you think that's a little out of _character_ , for him? Think back to fights you’ve had before- when has it been that easy for him to admit he did something wrong? After spitting everything out through his teeth? Without making the same nasty remarks back?” Sips shakes his head. "This problem isn't just you, and it isn't just Smith. It’s not the situation, either."

"I sent him out for pizza, and he comes back covered in blood.” The selkie mutters slowly. “How am I supposed to react?"

“Fucking _calmly!_ ”

“He’s been fucking and drowning people for years.”

“Exactly.” Sips huffs. “He’s not going to change overnight.”

Trott takes a deep breath and looks away. “He probably can’t change at all- he _is_ a kelpie.”

“Is that what you think?” The mortal king asks incredulously. “You don’t believe in him?”

Trott’s looks up. “That’s not what I-”

“Well, that’s what it sounds like! To him _and_ to me.”

Sips eyes bore into him sternly, brows furrowed in disbelief.

“Ross says that all the time, that ‘he’s a kelpie, he can’t help it’ crap.” Trott clarifies. “Maybe I’m starting to think he’s right.”

Sips shakes his head. “Him being a kelpie is a factor, not a reason for why he kills. I don’t know why he does it other than the adrenaline rush, but that doesn’t matter. You were telling me before it’s like an addiction, so why are you putting the blame on him?”

Trott sighs and rubs his face with a hand. “Because if he keeps failing the way he did tonight...”

“ _Don’t._ ” Sips mutters darkly, with anger in his voice. “Don’t you _dare_ call it failure. You don’t fucking _understand_ failure in the mind of someone who’s depressed.”

“Maybe I can, have you ever thought about that, Sips?” Trott says tersely in response.

“You should _know better_ , then!” Sips yells. “ _Don’t tell him to stop being careless when you’re careless yourself!_ ”

“Shut your mouth.” Trott whispers, the bite gone from his words.

Sips purses his lips together. “Words like that are going to hurt him even worse, coming from you.”

They staring back at each other in the quickly darkening night. Trott in disbelief and Sips with grim bitterness.

“Do you want him to jump off a building?” Sips asks bluntly.

“ _Of course not!_ ”

“ _Then watch what you fucking say._ ” Sips sneers. “He believes every insult against him- if you tell him he’s a failure, he’s not going to disagree.”

“I-” Trott stammers. “That’s not what I-”

"You _never_ tell someone that what they're doing is not enough, Trott.” Sips continues, shaking his head. “Because to them, that's everything they _can_ do. For them, that's _all_ they can do. ‘Trying’ has to be enough, because sometimes that’s all you have. As much as you know you can’t weigh things in failures and successes, it’s hard to see it that way all the time, and Smith _isn’t_ going to see it like that. Not suffering as he is.”

Trott shuts his eyes for a brief moment, and then opens them again.

Sips sighs heavily. “Things like this don't go away easily. Regardless of what he's done, Trott, he still needs us." _Regardless of what you've said, you still need me_ , He thinks.

"I know that." Trott says. His voice strains on the words, pained, as they're wrenched from his throat. He turns from Sips with his face in his hand and starts to walk again.

Sips continues following. “Trott,” He sighs. “I know you're fucking worried, alright? I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do! I don't like this anymore than you do.” The mortal king adjusts the hat on his head and takes a deep breath. “But...you can’t keep doing this. Shutting him out? Taking your anger out on his mistakes? It isn’t going to change a damn thing. Smith will still be hurting, and you’ll still worry. The world keeps turning. Life goes on.”

Sips follows Trott silently through the streets, down towards the pier and the boats that rock against the docks. The night is quiet, save for the sounds of city life and the river’s coursing current. The factories and shops in the area are closed down for the night. Their dark windows reflect the light from the streetlamps.

Trott stops by the river’s edge, where high guard rails keep the pier from the river below. His hands shake as they wrap around the metal bars.

The selkie swallows thickly. "All I work for, all I do, it doesn't matter. I can't stop him. I can't help him, I can’t-" He cuts off.

Sips places his hand, heavy and warm, on Trott's shoulder. "What is it, then?" He asks quietly. "What's got you so wound up over this?"

“If...” Trott shakes his head and glances at Sips for a split second, before looking down at the river beneath them. “If this keeps happening...if Smith keeps leaving bodies behind, we could have the magic police on our backs.” He explains carefully. His eyes are brimmed and his voice sounds like it’s being forced through a sieve. “When I went into hell to get that demon heart, I had to contact Angor. He’s got a closer eye on Smith than he has in years.”

“That fallen archangel fuck?”

Trott’s lips quirk up in a brief smile. “Yeah. The one and only.”

“What about him? What can the fucking magic cops do to _us?_ ”

“He’s in charge of magical law enforcement, in addition to being the horned bastard’s gatekeeper. Fae and humans are supposed to keep a thin line of interaction- you’re not supposed to do anything that puts us all at risk. Do what you want with them, but mortals must be more or less kept in the dark.”

“So, it’s like secret keeping? Kill what you want, unless people start noticing?”

Trott nods. “If Smith has killed as many as he says he did, and not left the bodies to the river, they could indict him for his reckless drowning. Over-use of his power and compromising the dull illusion between human and fae.”

“And that means...?”

Trott stares down at the river beneath him, swirling, churning. “It means Smith would have to pay lifeblood for the lives he killed. And Angor could do as he sees fit to repay that.”

Sips bites his tongue and swallows back his response.

The archangel was fallen for a reason. His name came attached with fear. Sips had never met the guy, but his court hated him, and he sounded like a pompous, sadistic asshole.

Trott leans against the bars. “That’s why I’m angry.” He sighs heavily. “That’s why I said what I did.”

Sips purses his lips and tightens his hand firmly on Trott’s shoulder. “Tell him that instead of berating him for his addiction, then. Arguing isn’t going to make him understand.”

"Angor is going to go after him, Sips.” Trott mumbles sullenly. “And there isn't a single thing I can do to stop him when he does."

Sips stares out at the river in silence.

“Dammit...” Trott sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb. “Sips...”

“What?”

“I should have never...”

Sips tuts. “Yeah, well, too fucking late isn’t it?”

Trott turns around, dislodging Sips’ hand and looking down the street. The occasional car sits in shadow. The trash bags for tomorrow ripple in the breeze, waiting for the morning trucks to pick them up.

Trott thinks on tonight’s events. He runs over his and Smith’s argument in his head, and winces at all the things he didn’t mean to say.

“‘What’s wrong with _him?_ ’” He repeats to himself. “Fucking hell...what’s wrong with _me?_ ”

“You’re only human.” Sips says to his left. “Or, fae, I guess. Not much difference besides the magic, and the near-immortality and shit.”

Trott rolls his eyes and rubs his face with his hand. “Sips, I’m just as bad, if not worse. Smith’s not the one who failed, I did. I’m the one who has failed him.”

Sips shakes his head and turns towards him. “Look, Trott, neither of you are failures. Regardless of what you’ve done, you’re not worthless.” He scoots closer to Trott under the halo of the street lamp.

Trott stares down at his feet. “I failed him that night at the party, I failed him when he threw that plate, and I’ve failed him again tonight. I use my worries as fuel for anger...and I burn myself.” He sighs bitterly. “I should stop being so surprised.”

“Fire effects more than what it burns, Trott. As do storms and any sort of fighting.”

Trott turns and looks at Sips. The mortal king is frowning, face shadowed with distrust and disappointment. “The two of you fighting affects Ross and I, you know.” He adds.

Trott looks away. He stares down the street at the flickering lamp-lights and the dew-covered patches of grass. “I’ve failed you all, then. Haven’t I?”

“No, Trott, _neither of you are failures_. You’re just predictable in your mistakes.”

Trott rubs his face with his hand. He can feel a headache starting in his temples. It was probably a migraine, but he hadn’t eaten dinner either. “How am I supposed to fix this?” He asks.

There’s a brief pause before Sips’ speaks.

“You can’t.”

Trott swallows thickly. He doesn’t meet Sips’ eyes.

The mortal king sighs sadly. “Smith being depressed isn’t something you can fix, Trott. But you can start by apologizing for your actions and changing how _you_ act. I know you know that already.”

Trott rests his eyes for a brief moment. “What about Angor?”

Sips scuffs his shoe along the ground. “I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”

“We?”

“ _We._ ” Sips frowns. “You’re not alone in this, you know.”

The bond between Trott and Smith felt small, shriveled up inside Trott’s chest like a raisin. The more he focused on it, the more it felt like a needle poking through his skin. The longer he stayed away, the more it was noticeable. Numb. Aching.

“I forget, sometimes.” Trott admits, rubbing his chest. “I don’t know how I do, considering there’s three of you, but I spent so long thinking I was alone that I just...”

“You’re not the only one.”

They share a look of solemn solidarity.

“We’ll be alright.” Sips affirms. “Somehow.”

“How can you know?” He asks Sips morosely as he stares out at the river. “We’re all going to die, only matter is when and how. It’ll probably be for each other, that’s the most I’ve thought of.”

“Trott...” Sips sighs and places a hand on the selkie’s shoulder again. “Don’t think like that. It’s not going to do us any good.”

Sips’ hand moves from Trott’s shoulder, and they walk along the pier again. They watch the boats bob up and down in the river’s current.

“You should know as well as I do, Sips, that our time is numbered.” Trott says.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to wonder when _that_ is- I don’t want to fucking know. It’s not something I look forward to.” Sips looks out along the river and the city it winds through. “I don’t want to think about the aftermath. It doesn’t matter who goes first, it’s going to feel like we all die at once.” Sips’ voice chokes on the end of his sentence.

They stop again farther down and listen to the lap of waves against the docks. The night’s chill has set in, this close to the water, and the selkie shivers and rubs his arms.

Sips offers him his jacket with a look.

Trott doesn’t protest this time. He lets Sips pull the jacket around him and zip it tightly up to his chin. The warm, wash-softened leather smells faintly of smoke from the bowling alley. It’s familiar, as well as the sight of Sips scratching the stubble on his face as he looks away, hooking one thumb into the pocket of his jeans. Trott buries his hands deep in the jacket pockets and stands closer to Sips.

The moon is a crescent tonight, sharp and glowing up above them. With the lights of the city, there are only specks of stars peeking through the night sky.

“How do you change what you are?” Trott asks, staring out into the river. His voice is just loud enough to be heard over the waves. “How do you stop being someone you never wanted to be?”

“Time. And effort.” The mortal king shrugs. “Success only comes at a price.”

Trott turns to look at him.

Sips stares out into the river with a far-away look in his eyes. “Sometimes that price is heartbreak.” He continues, finishing his thought. “Sometimes, to change, you need to get through all the shit first. Even then, time and effort don’t make a better self on their own.”

“What else does?” Trott asks.

“I don’t know. Luck, fate, chance. Karma. Faith. Whatever makes the world turn.” Sips shrugs and looks away from the river to meet Trott’s eyes. “Change can take a lot of things.”

The selkie nods and shuffles closer to Sips for warmth. “Quite the cost, isn’t it?” He murmurs, tucking his head under Sips’ chin.

Sips hooks his fingers in the pocket of his jacket that Trott’s wearing and tugs him the tiniest bit closer.

“Yeah.” He sighs bitterly, closing his eyes. “Yeah, it is...”  
  


* * *

  


"How is he?" Trott asks quietly. He steps cautiously into the bathroom as if he’s walking through a minefield.

"He’s asleep.” Ross replies, looking down at Smith in his arms. The kelpie is curled against his chest, breath even and steady against Ross’ neck.

“His clothes are in the wastebasket.” Ross continues, looking up again. He nods towards the cabinet under the sink. “I didn't know if you wanted to burn them or not."

Trott swallows thickly. He looks as old as Sips in the dim lighting of their bathroom. A bulb had gone out in the overhead light, and they hadn't gotten around to replacing it just yet.

"Is he hurt?" Sips asks. He leans in the doorway with one arm propped up against the molding.

Ross shakes his head. "No, but he's worn out."

The mortal king sighs heavily, tapping his fingers on the wood. "We all are, I think." He looks over at Trott, who's looking down at Smith with a sad expression. Sips pushes away from the doorway and nudges Trott's shoulder. "Time to hit the sack."

"What sack?"

"It's an expression, Ross."

"Oh."

Trott walks past Sips. Sips and Ross share a long look as Ross bundles Smith into his arms and carries him into the bedroom. Behind them, Sips turns off the bathroom light.

Smith rouses briefly in Ross’ efforts to detach the kelpie from his embrace. He makes pained, upset noises, and shudders when Ross finally tucks the sheets around him.

Sips gets in bed on the other side of Smith and pulls him close. "Bedtime, ponyboy.” He mutters, his stubble scratching Smith’s skin as he nuzzles his neck. “Go back to sleep."

Smith curls into Sips' chest with a huff of breath. He settles soon enough.

Ross turns from Sips and Smith to look at Trott, who is undressing and pulling on a thin set of pajamas. He waits for the selkie to get into bed, and then slips in beside him- mortal and marble on either side of the two water fae.

From the light snoring that starts up, Ross knows Sips is already asleep. He rolls his eyes with half a chuckle, but frowns at Trott, who is staring at the sheets.

Trott’s guilt over his actions is clearly written on his face.

“You should go to sleep.” The gargoyle whispers. He brushes a lock of hair out of Trott’s eyes.

“I know.” Trott whispers back. “I’m just thinking.”

“Don’t.” Ross tuts.

Trott chuckles sadly. “I can’t _not_ think.”

“I know you’re worried. Don’t be.” He strokes a finger down Trott’s cheek.

The selkie sighs. “‘Not worried’ isn’t in my range of emotions, Ross.” His feet shuffle under the sheets, restless.

Ross frowns at the solemn expression on Trott’s face. After the events with the Norn, his court aches. Trott's trip to hell didn't do any good for him, and Ross knows neither Trott nor Smith gets much sleep at night. Trott was constantly exhausted and stressed. Smith was all nerves and melancholy, and instead of his charm consuming him, now the sadness did.

Ross hates seeing them both this way; hates that he can't do much to change their minds. It's hard to persuade someone to be hopeful and optimistic about things, so sometimes you have to be what they can't.

Trott stares at him in the darkness of the bedroom, and Ross thinks about Smith.

“He asked for you.” He murmurs, eyes trained cautiously on Trott’s face.

Trott blinks back at him. “He did?”

Ross nods. “He asked me to tell him what to do, like you do.”

“Like I do?”

“Yeah.” The gargoyle licks his lips. “I think he wanted me to...well, punish him, I guess. I don’t entirely know what he meant, but...I told him I couldn’t be you. I couldn’t be, not when he was so torn up about himself.”

Trott sighs heavily and stares down at the sheets. “I wouldn’t use him like that. If I’d been there, I would have turned him down, too.”

Ross hums. “I’m not so sure you would.”

“I don’t want to control him.”

"I know you don’t. I know you're worried about that...but Smith trusts you. I think he'd be willing to give you more than you think.”

Trott shakes his head. “I don't want to hurt him even more. I can’t change who he is, that’s not what I’m trying to do. I wouldn’t _want_ to change him, anyway...” The selkie purses his lips together bitterly.

“I know you don't want to own him, Trott. That’s not what he wants, or needs. That’s not what he was asking for.” Ross traces the line of Trott’s collarbone with his fingertips. “Smith wants _you_. He wants the reassurance you project when you give him orders. I know you think you’d take too much from him, but Smith’s willing to give it. I know you’re afraid that you can’t help him...but you're wrong."

Trott reaches out and silently takes Ross' hand, entwining their fingers. Ross' palm dwarfs Trott's in comparison.

"You're right, I think." The selkie admits hesitantly, rubbing his thumb across the back of Ross' hand. "But I don't know how to do that for him..."

Ross kisses his eyelids closed. "What you need to do is sleep, Trott. You're exhausted, too."

"Yeah..." Trott sighs. Ross knows he's thinking things over in his head again.

"Save it for the morning." He whispers, stroking Trott's face until he relaxes back into the sheets. "Close your eyes; go to sleep."

Ross watches over his court, a silent sentinel, as Trott finally gets some rest. He sighs heavily.

The weight of today’s events is still heavy on his shoulders. Ross can feel Smith's anguish under his skin, and he feels so uncertain about how to help or what to do. He’s a guardian, a protector, but being unable to protect them from themselves is what hurts the most.

The gargoyle frowns sadly as he looks over his sleeping companions. There’s so much hurt between them...

Ross sighs again. The least he can do is remain steadfast. He’ll hold them in his arms if that’s what they need; he’ll be there. He’ll be strong when they cannot.

Some things are hard to do, but for his court, there’s no such thing as giving too much.  
  


* * *

  


Smith wakes too early, before sunrise. Sips is a solid, blanketed weight at his side, asleep and snoring. He can see Ross’ still form on the other side of the bed, face in the pillows, but there’s no sign of Trott.

The kelpie lays there for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. The apartment is quiet in this fragile hour of the morning, despite the birds already chirping outside.

Five a.m. is a strange time.

Even though his brain hasn’t decided to assail him with self-doubt yet, Smith cannot fall back asleep. He pushes the blankets off his legs and gets up, leaving two of his court with a longing glance.

Ah, to sleep so easily...

Smith feels washed out, drained, and he doesn't really want to think about why. He’s still so terribly tired...

He pulls on someone’s pants from the floor and pads barefoot down the hall. As he blinks into the darkness of the living room, he muffles a yawn.

Trott’s slumped on the couch, sleeping soundlessly, with his selkie skin around his shoulders. A piece of uneaten toast and a half-drunk cup of tea is in front of him on the coffee table.

Smith stands at the opening end of the hallway, watching the rise and fall of Trott’s chest with a feeling of both melancholy and nostalgia.

How many nights has he come home to this?

Too many.

He shakes his head and moves closer to the couch, careful not to knock over or step on anything.

“Trott...” Smith shakes the selkie’s shoulder very lightly.

Trott mumbles something and stretches awake. The sight brings about a wave of deja vu. Smith almost expects to look up and see Ross in soot-covered naked glory by the door.

Trott squints up at him in the dark. “Smith? What are you doing up?”

He shrugs. “Woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. What are you doing out here?”

“Same thing, except I fell back asleep.” Trott smiles tiredly and pats the seat beside him. “Sit with me.”

“You don’t want to go back to bed?” Smith sinks slowly into the couch. He wants to throw his arm over Trott’s selkie-skin covered shoulders, but he holds himself back.

Trott shakes his head and sighs. “Not yet. I...I owe you an apology.” He frowns. “I owe you a lot of things, really.”

Smith doesn't say anything for a long few minutes. He looks away from Trott and stares hard at the tv screen instead.

"I shouldn’t..." Trott inhales deeply and lets the breath back out in a rush. "I shouldn't have said what I did." He slowly takes Smith's hand where it rests by his side. "I didn't mean for it to...to come out like that."

“Maybe you were right.” Smith murmurs, almost inaudible.

Trott shakes his head. “It was wrong of me to say.”

Smith shrugs. His casual attitude hides his pain. “We all have our faults.” He mutters. “That happens to be yours.”

Trott winces internally. He knows that, but hearing it is a bitter pill to swallow. "The two of us...we've never been good at showing our concern for the other." Trott says quietly, brushing his thumb over the back of the kelpie’s hand. "We always hide our worry in anger. We always end up hurting each other."

"You get mad when something I do hurts one of us, I know." Smith replies. "It's happened more than once. I can see the pattern, I'm not stupid." His body posture is rigid, stock-still.

Trott nods slowly in agreement. “I get angry when you do something reckless. I don’t want you, or any of us, hurt, and recklessness endangers us all.” The selkie looks down at their hands where they’re clasped together and continues. "You’ve never been one to make calculated decisions over snap-judgements. But you’re not stupid...and you're not a failure, either."

Smith grinds his teeth. He stares hard enough at their reflections in the tv to make his eyes water.

"I'm not even commenting on that." He says with an air of nonchalance to cover up the anguish.

Trott swallows thickly. He can feel the hurt radiating between them, the bond they made aching with what’s happened. He holds Smith’s hand tighter. The kelpie’s body language reads as if he’s ready to bolt, and Trott’s afraid if he lets go Smith will pull away.

Trott has to work to make things right again. Or better. They’ve made it together this far, after all.

“I’m scared for you.” He admits painfully.

Smith shakes his head. “Don’t tell me that.” He tries to tug his hand away from Trott, but the selkie holds on.

“Let me explain.” Trott squeezes his hand tighter and swallows thickly. “I can’t lose you, that’s what scares me. I don’t want you to think that-”

“That what, you don’t give two shits? It sure fucking sounded like it, Trott.” Smith mutters between his teeth.

“I know.” Trott whispers. He drags his thumb back and forth over the back of Smith’s hand. “I don’t want you to think that, but I know that’s how it sounded.”

Smith says nothing.

Trott squeezes his fingers tightly. “I know that I shouldn’t expect you to change if I don’t change, too.” He says with a bitter frown. “When this happens again, I have to remind myself of who I need to be. I don’t want to lose you, sunshine. And that scares me.”

_You're not going to lose me, Trott. Not ever._

Smith wants to tell him that. But where he was right now, he wasn't sure he hadn't lost himself.

“I thought you said you’d just get lost with me.” The kelpie says instead, smiling slightly.

Trott lets out a sad chuckle. “If that’s what this is, I guess so. But I can’t let this keep happening. You’re right, I’m a fucking hypocrite. But I bite and claw and tear because...” He trails off.

“I know why, Trott.” Smith replies quietly, squeezing his hand the slightest bit back even though Trott’s practically crushing his fingers. “I know.”

“It doesn’t excuse my actions.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. But they’re not without reason.” Smith finally looks at Trott again, meeting his eyes with a grim but wistful look. “That’s where you differ, you know. Because you care, and they never did.”

Trott looks away from those mossy green eyes, down at their hands still intertwined. “Losing any of you...I don’t know what I’d do if that happened.” He admits. He’s afraid to say any more than that, but having voiced a little bit of his worries is enough to ease some of the tension.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the strong one out of all of us?” Smith asks cheekily.

Trott chuckles. “If any of us are strong, it ain’t the two of us.”

Smith smiles curiously at that. “Maybe we’re strong enough, who knows.”

“Maybe.” Trott sighs. “At the very least, we’ve got each other.” He kisses the back of Smith’s hand, and loosens his grip.

The kelpie pulls away slowly, not meeting his eyes.

“Are you going back to bed?” Trott asks.

Smith shrugs and hefts a weary sigh. “It doesn’t matter any other way.”

“Come here, then.”

Trott pulls him closer before he can protest, leans into his shoulder as if to keep him from getting up. He tucks his selkie skin around the two of them and holds Smith close.

It’s warm and familiar, Trott pressed against Smith with his skin wrapped around them both. Trott smells like the ocean, and Smith breathes in deep. He feels guilty, and hurt, but all the same...it’s Trott. This wasn’t the first time they’d made a mess of things. It wouldn’t be the last, either, Smith knows. But that’s what you get when you mix the river with the sea. He’s always known.

Smith shifts his hand in Trott’s grip to entwine their fingers together again, and kisses the top of his head. He knows this is the reason he stays, no matter how much things hurt. If Smith’s honest with himself, Trott has more of him than he thinks. How much that matters in the end...he can only guess. He just hopes it matters when it’s most important.

The selkie is the first to fall back asleep. Between the two of them and their terrible nights, Smith wonders if they ever get eight hours of rest. He times Trott’s breaths with the ticking of the kitchen clock, and as sunrise peeks up over the horizon, he drifts back to sleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smith’s knife  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/121317763788/clumky-my-brother-got-a-cool-hologram-knife
> 
> blood and poetry quote thing: http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/121175316916/nothing-ever-ends-poetically-it-ends-and-we-turn
> 
> broken tiles pic: http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/120755328062
> 
> poem:  
> http://murdoxs.tumblr.com/post/107202608612/what-do-you-do-when-you-cant-breathe-deep-count
> 
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129294646952  
> everything is going to be okay. Ross.
> 
> http://clementinevonradics.tumblr.com/post/116502438679/you-are-on-the-floor-crying-and-you-have-been-on  
> Smith and Ross in the bathroom
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/127160322370  
> I just feel so empty Smith
> 
> the sun will rise and we will try again  
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/122599468365
> 
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129159099806  
> wow i can't wait to be dead!! Sips
> 
> http://sweetsharps.tumblr.com/post/129859319018/unexpressed-emotions-will-never-die-they-are  
> "Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and they will come forth, later, in uglier ways." - Sigmund Freud  
> Trott, keeping tags from sweetsharps (who is always so on point with aesthetic tags)  
> (let me know if you want me to remove the links to your tumblr, though.)
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/133108078585  
> You shouldn't do this all alone.
> 
> http://sweetsharps.tumblr.com/post/130146368568/craveyardcat-emily-carroll-through-the-woods  
> Trott
> 
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129533001894/aesthetic-blog  
> I know that I can't have it all, but without you I am afraid I'll fall. Trott.


	5. thus conscience does make cowards of us all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 5 cws: fae manipulation, arson, fire/explosion, death, drowning, suicidal thoughts/ideation, panic/anxiety; mention of injuries, car accidents. brief mention of drinking  
> rating upped to Explicit for the car sex in this chapter, though I’m not entirely sure if it needed it.
> 
> playlist for to be or not to be, The Thousand Natural Shocks:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5ZDKsjtx240E1fjJaAhYnR
> 
> specific songs for this chapter:  
> Burn- The Pretty Reckless  
> The Draw- Bastille
> 
> want to reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/to-be-or-not-to-be-ghostofgatsby
> 
> full tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/the-thousand-natural-shocks-playlist

The hot summer sun beats down onto Smith as he gets out of his car. He needs to drive, but an empty tank of gas won’t get him anywhere.

The gas station he’s parked at is devoid of life. It’s off of a back road that goes deeper into the countryside, away from the main highway out of the city proper and close to the outskirts. The fields on either side are barren, for sale according to a small sign just past the entrance. There’s a billboard to the left of the station. It’s faded and dilapidated, with an old and weatherbeaten advertisement on it. The ad depicts a person wearing glasses, but it’s been shredded from the rain, which makes it impossible to tell what company it was for.

Smith fills up his gas tank reflexively, the task simple and giving him something to focus on. He mutters a curse about high prices and watches the numbers on the display tick up.

The city was really getting to him today, all this hot weather bringing the promise of parties and wild nights. The clubs offer refreshing drinks and a thumping beat, and the young and the reckless adventure out into the night in search of freedom. The neon lights, the dancing, the drinking...it all calls for Smith to join in on the fun. It makes him anxious, nervous, high-strung.

The itch to drown was like scratching a mosquito bite- it felt like a lit match bristling under his skin. As the years had gone on, the fire had burned brighter, and the itch had gotten stronger. Instead of a prickle, the after-effects were blisters. Smith could no longer ignore the welts left in his mind, sore and painful to the touch.

He can’t focus on the call of the city. He can’t think too hard about what he’s trying to get away from. His keys are heavy in his pocket, and Smith knows it’s all too easy for him to fall back into things. The lust to drown makes him feel over-sensitive. His skin tingles with desire, and the temptation beckons.

He just needs to get out. If he can get out of the city, get away, he’ll be a little better off come nightfall. He can go home then, instead of out into the darkness of the alleyways, chasing some pretty young thing unlucky enough to cross his path.

Smith takes a deep breath and sighs, watching the numbers go higher until he knows the tank of his car is full. He stops, lets go of the pump and pulls it out, hanging it back up with one hand and pulling his wallet out with the other.

The radio overhead is tinny and quiet, playing some soulful country ballad that the kelpie would probably hum along to if he wasn’t so agitated. He presses buttons on the display, runs his card through, and waits. Sweat clings to the hair at the nape of Smith’s neck. He can feel it on his skin, and he longs for air conditioning again. He taps his credit card against the palm of his hand as the transaction runs through and prints off a tiny receipt.

Just as Smith tears the paper from the machine and puts his credit card back in his wallet, he hears footsteps.

 _I don’t fucking need anything, just let me leave._ He thinks, hands shaking as he shoves his wallet into his back pocket.

The footsteps walk up to him. “Everything alright there, sir?”

Smith rolls his eyes and turns to face the gas station attendant.

And it's all over from there.

The rush of desire crashes down on top of him, knocks him breathless just as he pulls the attendant into his embrace. He shoves them up against his car and kisses them bruisingly. The charm sinks into them, and they give up everything so willingly.

The lust is like a fever. Every moan he draws from them turns him on even hotter. Clothes come off, but the heat sticks to his skin.

Smith moves as if he’s intoxicated. He moves without really seeing, taking action before his brain can catch up. His vision is just a blur of the person that’s in front of him.

He scrambles for the door to the back seat, and maneuvers the gas station attendant inside. His fingers curl around them possessively, nails digging into skin. They gasp out in ecstasy as he bites bruises into their neck.

The door shuts behind them, and the water quickly starts to pool at Smith’s feet.

He fucks them hard in the backseat of his car. The water rises to the top, and the chill of it against Smith’s heated skin makes him shudder.

His heart pounds behind his ribcage. His climax rushes over him so hard he nearly blacks out with the weight of it all, eyes rolling back in his head. The kelpie hears the current of the river roaring in his ears, and nothing else.

When it’s over, Smith sways back against the leather seats. He feels weightless, dizzy. He shakes and gasps in river water.

Slowly, everything stills. For the briefest of moments, laying back in the water feels like a rapture.

And then Smith realizes the scope of what he’s done. Slow realization creeps over him, and the daze of the afterglow is replaced by steadily growing horror.

The river water on his tongue tastes sour with death- acrid, acidic.

_Oh..._

_Oh, fuck..._

He opens his eyes and backs away from the body, sucking in one panicked breath after the other, hyperventilating. Terror courses through him. Guilt, shame, regret, it digs it’s claws in and starts tearing everything apart.

He’s failed again. He’s fucking failed again, that’s all he is, _you fucking piece of shit, you’ve-_

Smith’s breaths are stuttered, and every inhale tastes of the river. There’s water in the car, a dead body in the back seat-

 _This is all you are!_ The voices scream. _This is all you will be!_

_All you do is destroy; all you are is death!_

_You cannot break free from something so integral to yourself._

_This is what you are. Things will always be the same._

Smith scrambles for the door handle. He trips over himself and falls out of the car, scraping his knees on the concrete.

 _You thought you could escape so easily?_ The voices laugh, taunting. _Nothing. Will ever. Change._

_Look where you are now. Look at what you've done!_

_Worthless!_

_All this trying was for nothing._

_Look at what you do- look what you’ve become! You will never be anything different._

_You will never be able to change._

Smith curls into a ball, dry heaving, sobbing, and screaming into his hands, as the water rushes out behind him. The real world feels distant. But he can’t deny what’s happened. The afterglow of arousal, as wrong as it feels now, is all too noticeable. As is the feeling of his naked skin against the dirt-covered concrete.

_This can't be happening...please tell me this isn’t real..._

Still shaking, Smith moves as if on autopilot. Without really thinking, he gets to his feet and pulls on his clothes over wet skin. He drags the body out of his car and next to the gas tank.

_Evidence. Have to get rid of it. Have to get rid of this._

He moves his car over to the exit, far away from the tanks, and walks back. Pressing the buttons on the machine again, he takes the pump out of it’s holster and sprays the body down with gasoline.

The sharp carbon stench singes his nostrils. The fumes make him light-headed as he soaks the area thoroughly, and pours a long trail from the tanks half-way towards the exit.

He puts the pump back in the holster and goes back to his car, making sure not to step in the petrol as he does.

In the glove box is a box of matches. Smith returns to the end of the gasoline trail, follows it back with his eyes to the soaked body at the end of the tanks.

Ignoring the aching feeling inside himself, he lights a match. The flame starts to lick down the wood, burning orange-black and nearing his fingertips.

Smith thinks about the match, and fire, and how much he hates himself right now.

He throws the match at the gasoline. The trail catches ablaze and races towards the tanks and the body near it.

Smith steps back quickly and shields his eyes as the tankers explode.

A fury of fire bursts through the air, burning the sky an orange-red. The blast of heat is so intense Smith feels the hair on his arms singeing. The sound of the explosion makes his ears ring, and he dodges scraps of debris as it rains down bits of metal and ash.

Smith slowly lowers his arms, heart beating hard inside his chest. The body and the tank is gone, save for a large black scorch mark and a whole lot of fire. The heat makes his face sweat, and dries the river water on his skin. He watches the fire spread, flaming debris catching on the roof of the building and starting to consume it.

The smoke makes Smith choke, and his eyes start to water. He hears sirens start like the tolling of a eulogy, and now the building looks like the court of hell.

His hands are shaking. He smells like a forest fire, and his fingers are stained with gasoline.

 _Maybe I can’t escape destruction._ Smith thinks distantly. _Maybe that’s all I am. Maybe..._

The sirens are sounding, and getting closer. The fire alarms in the gas station itself are going off. Smith doesn't even know if anyone's inside. They could have called the cops on him- there could be witnesses.

_Stupid._

_How could you be so stupid._

Smith turns his back and runs. He runs to his car and throws himself inside. Flames reflect in his rearview mirror as he drives away, and everything feels so wrong.

_Now look what you've done._

_Oh, you've done it now, kelpie boy. You've done it now._

He runs. He drives his car in loops around and around the city. Windows down, trying futilely to dry the upholstery and get rid of the smell. He wants to leave but he knows he can't, and everything is screaming at him.

Smith screams along with it, with everything, into the wind that sucks his breath away. His hands shake upon the wheel, and eventually he wears himself out. He drives back into the heart of the city, feeling the pressure of his mistakes weigh heavier and heavier as he does.

No one sees what he is. No one sees what he’s done, and yet he feels this terrible sense of hopelessness.

Not even they care.

No one does.

Smith parks where he was supposed to meet Trott after work, next to the shop. But he can’t face him now, and he can’t wander the shops looking like this, so he climbs the building across the street.

Up on the roof, he can see the city for miles. Endless expanse of buildings and sky, and in the distance, the river.

Smith crosses the roof and stops at the very edge. He stands with his toes brushing air and stares down, down, down.

It’s a long fall.

It’s a hard landing.

The cars drive through the streets, and the people walk and go about their day. Still, no one notices a thing. The kelpie wonders briefly if the arson of the gas station hit the news yet, and then shakes his head.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Down below, people go in and out of shops. Talking amongst themselves, unaware. Smith can understand why Ross was never noticed before. You could miss a lot of things if you never look up.

The wind blows his hair, making it even more of a complete mess after being wind-dried. Smith doesn’t bother fixing it, just closes his eyes.

All he sees are their faces behind his eyelids- the faces of his court. All he sees is them, the way they smile, the way they laugh, the way they look in disappointment, worry, and anger.

Smith has to wonder- was he only destined to repeat the same mistakes? Was that all he was, a repetition of his failures? Life slipped through his hands like grains of sand, and Smith felt powerless to stop it.

Wash, rinse, repeat. You can scrub the bloodstains out only so many times before it's ruined.

How many failures away was he from never being clean? When was he ever anything different than the river, and the death that ran through it as surely as the blood in his veins?

He used to be so sure in himself and what he was, but now he isn’t sure of anything.

Smith watches the sun set behind his closed eyelids. The wind caresses his face and dries the remaining water on his cheeks.

He stands on the edge, completely still.

  


Something’s buzzing.

  


His phone.

  


Smith blindly pulls it out of his pocket and answers.

“Smith, where are you? I thought you were picking me up from work?”

It’s Trott. Shit, he’d forgotten. What time was it, even? How long had he been standing here?

“Are you coming?” Trott asks.

Smith opens his eyes and blinks, wobbling a little with the vertigo. “I’m on the roof.” He answers. His throat is dry; his voice is rough. He scrapes the sole of his boot along the bricks as he widens his stance.

Trott sighs tiredly. “Okay...are you going to come down?”

Smith shrugs but then remembers Trott can’t see him through the phone. “I don’t know.” He says. He looks down below.

Traffic is busier. It’s just past rush hour, and the night shift crew are all trying to get to work, while those who are done for the day are trying to get out to celebrate.

There’s a pause over the phone, and then another sigh. “Where are you? I’m outside...”

“I’m on the building across the street.” Smith answers. He looks over at the shop, and can see Trott standing outside Dirty Deeds.

The selkie looks up. There’s a strange cough over the phone, and when Trott speaks again his voice is tinged in panic. “ _Why are you standing on the edge?_ ”

Smith steps back, shakily planting his feet down on solid roofing. “I’m not.” He denies.

“You were.”

There’s a long pause, and Smith hurriedly tells him he’ll be down to pick him up in a minute.

“Smith-”

He hangs up and heads for the fire escape to climb back down.

If Trott asked the question that Smith knew he was thinking, the kelpie wasn’t sure what he would have answered.

He didn’t want to know the answer.

He didn’t want to think about it.

Smith starts up his car and tries to drown out the voices in his head.

_You should have. You should have._

  


“Smith? What’s going on?” Trott asks as he gets in the car.

Smith doesn’t meet Trott’s eyes. He can tell by Trott’s posture that the selkie’s mind is spinning wildly, trying to figure out what Smith won’t admit.

“What does it matter?” Smith mutters in response. _It’s not like it’s hard to tell._ He jerks the car into gear and pulls out into the city traffic.

Trott sniffs the air and frowns. “It matters because you smell like gasoline. And it smells like..."

He trails off and Smith grinds his teeth to keep from speaking.

It smells like sex. It smells like river water and death. Mildew, dampness in the seats, failure, and regret.

“Something happened.”

Smith shakes his head. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me.” Trott protests. “If it’s something that’s bothering you, I’d like to know.”

Smith says nothing. He doesn’t dare look at Trott. He doesn’t want to see the incredulous look in Trott’s eyes, the bitter disappointment, the crushing anger.

He drives back towards home. He feels the gears churn underneath him as he increases his speed. The car is a green streak, shifting lanes in a heartbeat to avoid colliding with cars in front of him. The engine is loud with the windows down, and Smith’s hair wildly blurs his vision as he drives.

"Just tell me what's wrong." Trott pries gently. His voice is low, soft and hard to hear over the sounds of the car and the city. "Why are you acting like this?" Trott’s eyes dart between the road and Smith beside him.

He’s too calm about this, and Smith shakes his head in confusion at Trott’s tone.

"It doesn't matter.” He stammers in response. “It doesn't matter, it's done. It's over with."

"Smith-"

" _Fuck off!_ " The kelpie shouts. Smith breathes hard and grinds his teeth. He presses his foot down harder onto the pedal, speed increasing further.

Trott purses his lips together.

Smith can’t look at him, but he hears the frustrated worry in Trott’s voice, and it hurts deep in his gut.

"What've you done that you won't explain it to me?" Trott asks.

Smith barks a laugh without humor, and the wind wrenches the sound of his cry away. "It's not like it's fucking _hard_ , Trott!” He screeches. “Why don't you _guess!_ "

His car pushes sixty, seventy, eighty.

The city blurs past them.

"Smith...you need to slow down." Trott states with his voice tinged in panic. His hands cling to the edge of the passenger seat, fingernails digging into the leather.

" _I can't_ , Trott, it's not going to happen!" Smith snaps between his teeth.

"You’re burning rubber, you better hope no one sees!" Trott yells back.

Smith scoffs and lets out an aggrieved snarl. "I'm _fae_ ; the car is _me_.” He sends Trott a glare instead of watching where he’s driving. “All they’re going to see is a streak of emerald-"

" _Smith!_ "

Smith snaps his gaze forward. The bridge he was planning to go over is out, and has caution signs blocking it. He slams his foot onto the brakes in panic as the front of the car smashes into the striped construction blockades.

The blockades fly off the end of the bridge and into the river. The car stops hard just before the broken edge, tires squealing loudly. The two water fae jerk against the seat belts.

The kelpie stares, wide-eyed and knocked breathless.

One second too late, and they could have been in the river.

His car sputters, chokes, and stalls out. The engine coughs twice and the hood starts to smoke.

_Now look what you've done._

Smith slumps back into his seat in shock, hands falling from the wheel. He watches the smoke rise with his lips parted slightly in surprise.

"Smith?"

He might as well have sailed into the lake. What difference would it be?

"Smith." Trott's hand tries to rest on top of his shoulder, but Smith flinches away. "Shouldn't we take a look at that?" Trott gestures towards the front of the car.

"It's broken, Trott." Smith whispers inaudibly.

Trott sighs heavily. "I think it just overheated." He replies.

Smith swallows thickly and shakes his head. "I can't fix it."

"Sure you can, sunshine." Trott reassures him. "...Let's take a look at it, yeah?" Trott’s knuckles brush his cheek, but Smith flinches away again.

He hears Trott get out of the car and walk around to the driver's side. Trott opens Smith's car door, and pulls at the sleeve of his shirt to get him up.

Smith stares down at his gasoline-stained fingertips as he takes his keys out of the ignition. He moves reluctantly, but only because he doesn't want to sit inside the car anymore.

Trott guides him around the front, minding the short distance to the end of the bridge, and throws up the hood. They cough as smoke spills out, and Smith peers in when it clears.

"Think it needs coolant." The kelpie mutters. He inspects the engine with a disgruntled frown.

"Coolant?" Trott asks in confirmation.

"Yeah. There should be some in the trunk."

"Got it."

Smith watches Trott disappear behind the car. He takes the time to think about what almost happened, and his blood runs cold. He leans over the open hood and stares hard at the engine beneath.

He could have wrecked the car. They could have smashed their heads open on the windscreen. They could be struggling at the bottom of the river right now, all because Smith can’t get his fucking head straight.

How could he have been so stupid? Driving so recklessly- it doesn’t matter if it’s just him, but Trott was in the passenger seat. Trott could have been hurt again because of his reckless decisions.

Smith grinds his teeth.

That's so typical- typical of him, always being reckless, always fucking up. Why care, why give a fuck when you’re nothing but a menace? Careless should be his middle name.

The kelpie shakes his head. He traces a bit of flaking paint on the front of the car.

It’s a strange thought, about names. He never had a name other than Smith- unless you counted his family's name in riverspeak, which was unpronounceable by human tongue.

But careless would most certainly work. Or reckless. Maybe he’d hyphenate it: Careless-Reckless.

Smith snorts in bitterness. He doesn’t know how he has the capacity to joke right now. Maybe it’s out of desperation. He doesn’t want to think too hard about what led to this.

Trott comes back around the car and hands him a bottle of coolant.

Smith shakes the bottle and listens to the liquid inside swish about. There should be just enough left to refill.

"It's weird that this car doesn't fix itself." Trott says offhandedly. “Isn’t it supposed to?”

"The car isn't magic, Trott, the keys are." Smith answers, adding coolant to his vehicle. "The keys control the car, and effect how it drives, but it can't control everything."

Trott hums decisively, and Smith knows he’s trying to make a point. “You were saying ‘the car is you.’” He says, leaning against the driver’s side door and crossing his arms over his chest.

Smith sighs tiredly. “I did, but...it’s not that simple.” He screws the cap back onto the bottle and wipes his fingers on his shorts. Now this pair is stained, too. Smith doesn’t look forward to the future shopping errands Trott will probably make him go on to get new clothes.

"Are you going to talk now, or are you going to run some more?" Trott asks, diverting the conversation.

The kelpie swallows thickly, slamming the hood shut and throwing the empty bottle out into the river. It was a question Trott had asked before, a long time ago, for different reasons.

“Fuck off, Trott...” He mutters without any heat.

“No, fuck you, Smith. If you don’t want to talk, fine.” He moves to walk away. “I’m going home.”

Smith skirts around the car and grabs Trott’s wrist before he can get too far. “Trott- wait. Don’t...” He pleads softly.

Trott doesn’t move.

“I’ll talk.” Smith adds. He lets go of Trott’s wrist and leans up against the tire.

Trott leans back against the driver’s side door.

Smith looks away. He sticks his hands in his pockets and watches the light disappear in the horizon. The sky is layered in blue, yellow, and pink pastel. It reminds Smith of the chalk Ross likes drawing with sometimes, or the cotton candy the gargoyle’s so fond of eating when they go to the fair.

Staring out into the distance, Smith can understand why Ross never gets tired of watching the sky change. So many sunsets- and yet no two are exactly alike.

He’s only seen a fraction of the years Ross has, not even a tenth. Smith can’t fathom the _decades_ he himself has lived, never mind the _centuries_ that Ross has under his belt.

It’s hard to believe sometimes, that this universe has held so much, and will hold so much, that he will never see.

Trott’s arm brushes against Smith’s, bringing him painfully back to the present.

Smith looks down at the ground and takes a deep breath.

“I fucked up again.” He starts, trying to keep his voice steady. “I fuck-murdered a gas station attendant and then blew the gas station up.” He holds his breath as he waits for the response, ready for Trott’s sharp-tongued expletives to hit him.

The silence stretches out like a rubber band, and snaps with the fulfillment of his expectations.

“Fucking _hell_ , Smith.” Trott mutters wearily. “What were you thinking?”

Smith lets the sounds of the city consume Trott’s sentence before he speaks again. “I wasn’t.”

“Well, at least you’re honest...” Trott sighs. His fingers wrap around Smith’s forearm, and he scoots closer until they’re pressed side to side.

“I’m glad you told me, sunshine.” The selkie says quietly. “But for fuck’s sake, be more careful. You could have accidentally blown yourself up.”

Smith blinks. Somebody a few streets over shouts, and after a series of honks there’s a roar of an engine that sounds like a motorcycle.

“That’s it?” He asks. “You’re not going to yell at me?”

Trott takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “Why would I yell at you?” He asks back.

“Oh, I can think of a few fucking good reasons.” The kelpie grinds between his teeth.

“Smith...”

Smith looks up at Trott slowly, afraid to look him in the eye.

Trott purses his lips together. He stares back at him, blue eyes into green. “I'm not saying I'm never going to be mad about it ever again.” The selkie says, determined but pained. “But I know the fuck-murdering thing is something you’re working on. And I can tell you’re already beating yourself up about it.”

Smith clenches his hands in his pockets, hands fisting his keys reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, because isn’t that just the understatement of the year- if it would make a difference, he would throw his bridle back to the river beneath them.

_I don’t want to be what I am anymore, take it back._

“This sort of thing...it’s always going to be an uphill battle for you, I know that.” Trott continues.

“Do you really?” Smith mutters snarkily. _You couldn’t possibly understand right now._ He thinks.

Trott tries to choose his words carefully. His fingers slide down Smith’s forearm to securely hold his wrist. “I know I haven’t been...I haven’t made the right decisions by you all of the time. But I’m not going to punish you when it’s something you’re working on.”

Smith huffs and looks away. “I deserve that, don’t I?” He asks brokenly, staring out across the closed-out bridge.

“What, punishment?” Trott frowns. “Why would you think that?”

“ _Because._ ” Smith snaps.

“Smith...” Trott starts. His eyes bore into Smith’s skin, and Smith just shakes his head.

“Blowing up the gas station was stupid and risky.” Trott agrees. “But I’m way too tired right now to look into any ill will we might have gathered from it.”

Smith scoffs. “It’s like you’re Ross.”

“What?”

“I mean...you’re never that quick to forgive. Especially me. And fuck knows I’ve screwed up royally. Every time you’ve had something to say about it. Now...nothing?”

Trott shrugs. “It’s been a long day.” He moves his bangs away from his eyes where the breeze has blown them. “Do you want me to take that out on you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Smith looks down and scuffs his boots on the dilapidated concrete.

Trott pulls Smith’s hand out of his pocket to intertwine their fingers.

Smith looks away again. He stares out at the changing colors on the horizon, out at the city and the river that winds through it.

“What were you doing up on that roof today, sunshine?” Trott asks worriedly.

The kelpie says nothing. He doesn’t meet Trott’s eyes.

Trott waits, patiently, for an answer.

Smith can’t give him one. He doesn’t want to think about it, and even still, his throat is sealed shut. He couldn’t speak a single word if he tried. It hurts too much. He can’t.

Trott rubs his thumb over the back of Smith’s hand soothingly. Too soothingly- Smith can hardly stand it. But he can’t tell him off, and he can’t force himself to pull away. He can’t clear his throat of the anguish that burns inside him.

Trott clears his own throat before speaking. “Back when...we first met, when my family threw me out, they disagreed with my actions and who I was associating with. But I’d finally been able to do something for myself, and I wasn’t going to regret that or let that diminish how I felt about you.”

Smith turns to look at Trott again, this time meeting the selkie’s eyes.

“You are every bit of darkness that I heard of, that I knew of, and I loved, love you still.” Trott says slowly. “Despite that...I don’t know if- if it will be enough for you.”

Smith desperately wants to say yes, of course it would be. The words are trapped in his throat. In the back of his mind, the voices whisper.

_It will never be enough._

“For all that we’re worth, for everything we can help you with...it’s not going to be easy.” Trott continues. “I know just how much of a drive it is for you...and I can see how you’re trying to give it up. It’s something that’s going to take time, but we’re not going anywhere.”

Trott squeezes his hand tightly, but it doesn’t keep the voices from speaking up.

_It will never be enough. You cannot change what you are, to love others._

_You know how impossible that is._

Smith turns away from Trott. Everything wells up inside him, keeping him from speaking, from denying every word Trott says. It’s not true. It can’t be true, because he’s not worth it.

Smith stares down at the river beneath the bridge and thinks of the view down the side of the building today. He thinks of the drop and the traffic below, and wishes he had had the guts to jump.

_You will never be enough for them._

“Sunshine...”

Trott’s voice is soft and warm in his ear. His free hand cups Smith’s cheek and turns Smith’s face towards his again.

“We’re not leaving.” Trott says fiercely. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Smith swallows heavily. The selkie’s eyes bore into his, emphasizing what he says.

"I know my fear of losing you...is not the same as your own fears. But after all these years, no matter what happens, we have each other.” Trott removes his hand from Smith’s. He turns the kelpie to face him completely, and continues speaking. “You always have us, sunshine. No matter if _you_ change or not, that doesn't."

Trott places his hand on Smith's chest, thumb and forefinger framing his collarbone.

"Do you really think I'd let you go?" Trott whispers. His blue eyes gaze into Smith's, and he strokes Smith’s cheek with a thumb. "If you lost who you are, do you really think I'd give up on you?" He asks.

Trott leans in and kisses him sweetly.

Smith's eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, and his lips tremble.

“Do you really think for a _second_ that I want you to leave me?” Trott whispers against his cheek.

"I left once." He chokes out when Trott pulls away. "I did leave, and-"

"And then we found each other again." Trott’s knuckles stroke the side of his face. "I'd never give up on you, sunshine." He admits, pursing his lips together. "Not for anything. No matter what happens, and no matter how many mistakes each of us make. No matter how many times you fail."

There are decades in the depths of Trott’s gaze. Smith finds familiarity in it, the comfort in years he’s spent gazing back. He just as taken aback as the first time they met. Still so overwhelmed after all this time, that Trott chose him as he chose Trott.

“Your failure is not what makes you ours, Smith.” Trott continues, knowing he has Smith’s full attention now. “Your failures do not define how much you mean to us. We’re with you, despite it. We’re with you, despite everything.”

The selkie takes a deep breath and sighs wearily. “If you can look past my mistakes, then you can look past your own.”

Smith squeezes his eyes shut, but he still sees Trott. And Ross. And Sips.

“I’m trying, too, you know.” Trott adds softly. He kisses Smith’s shut eyelids. “I know how hard it is, to fight what your past has told you.” He lowers his hands and they take up places on either side of Smith’s hips. “Let’s go home, Smith. Let’s see if this old car will start, huh?” He presses another small kiss to Smith’s lips.

Smith folds himself into Trott’s arms. His head slumps to the crook of Trott’s shoulder as he takes deep, staggered breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Smith whispers. He smells sea and salt that is purely Trott.

“It’s alright, sunshine...” Trott’s hands wrap around him to stroke his back in soothing motions. “It’s alright.”

“I never wanted to...”

“I know.”

“ _I’m so tired._ ” The kelpie sighs shakily, as if the words themselves have taken the last of his energy. “I’m just so tired...”

Trott swallows thickly and kisses his cheek. “Come on then, Smith. Let’s go home.” He waits for Smith to make the first move and extract himself from Trott’s grasp.

The car starts without much protest.

Smith takes his hand on the way back, and Trott holds on tight.  
  


* * *

  


Sips sticks his head past the half-open bathroom door. The air smells of jasmine, lavender, and sandalwood, fragrant with whatever bath products Trott has added to the water. The selkie in question holds up a finger to his lips when he notices Sips standing there.

Sips nods in understanding. He slips inside the bathroom and walks quietly over.

Trott is lying back in the periwinkle bath water with Smith in his arms.

The kelpie is asleep. He’s leaning against Trott’s chest, with his forehead in the crook of Trott’s neck and one cheek pressed to his skin. His feet dangle out over the corner of the tub, and his scraped knees brush the surface of the purple-colored water. Smith’s wet hair, flat against his head, is dark brown in the bathroom lighting. Stubble is dusted across his jawline, and his long eyelashes fan from his eyelids in dark, delicate swoops.

Sips breathes in slowly and sighs. He looks up at Trott, whose eyes look so hollow.

"Almost." Trott croaks, looking past Sips and pursing his lips together into a thin line. “We almost...” He stops.

Sips reaches out for Trott. His hand is wrinkly, bony, and pale against the contrast of Trott’s sun-kissed skin, but he gently squeezes Trott's shoulder and looks pointedly down at Smith.

“We didn't.” He whispers back. He leans in and presses a kiss to Trott’s forehead.

This close, the scent of the bathwater is strong, but not so strong that he can’t smell the water fae underneath. He can still smell Trott’s natural ocean scent, and Smith’s clean smell of moss and dirt.

Sips pulls back. “Don't get too pruney in here.” He teases, moving towards the door.

Trott nods with a small, weary smile. He looks down at Smith again, and brushes a stray hair back into place behind the kelpie’s ear.

Sips smiles painfully at the two of them, and turns away. He exits the bathroom and closes the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. He blinks heavily. He takes one deep breath, and then another, and leaves the bedroom.

As the mortal king walks down the hall, he can hear the tick of the oven and feel the heat coming from the kitchen. Ross stands in front of the living room window wearing only his apron and a pair of shorts. His tail is curled around in front of him, completely still.

“What’re you baking this time?” Sips asks quietly as he walks up to him.

“Muffins.” Ross replies, chewing his lip. “Blueberry.”

“First brownies, then cookies, a pie, and now muffins...” Sips hums. “You’ve done a lot of baking tonight.”

“I guess so.” Ross says with a shrug.

Sips wraps his arms around Ross from behind and leans his chin on the gargoyle’s shoulder. The flour on the front of Ross’ apron is rough and powdery against Sips’ skin, but it’s not important. He can tell Ross is worried by the look on his face, reflected in the window pane. The gargoyle looks so deeply upset that Sips can’t help but frown at the sight.

“Ross?” Sips murmurs, prompting him to speak.

Slowly, Ross’ tail drags across the floor. It catches on the carpet, and winds itself around Sips’ right leg.

“Are we not enough?” He whispers.

Sips reluctantly lifts his head from Ross’ shoulder. “We’re the reason he came home.” The mortal king answers softly. “We were enough, and that’s why.”

Ross sighs, chest expanding in mock-breathing motions. Sips’ thumb brushes lines back and forth across his skin.

“I don’t understand.” Ross mumbles. “How did it get to the point that...”

“I don’t know.” Sips admits.

The gargoyle is quiet for a long moment. He tightens his tail around Sips’ leg.

“I’m sorry.”

Sips frowns, watching Ross chew his lip in the reflection of the window. “For what?”

“Not keeping an eye on him like I should have.” Ross answers. He looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry, Sips. I...”

“ _Ross._ ” Sips stops Ross from saying any more, curling his arms tighter around the gargoyle. “Ross, this is not your fault.”

“But I-”

“No, Ross... _listen to me_. This is _not_ your fault.” Sips murmurs, voice fraught with emotion.

“I just-”

“ _Ross._ ” Sips croaks. He closes his eyes shut tight and purses his lips together hard. His grip changes as Ross turns in his arms to face him.

Ross frowns at the pained expression on the mortal king’s face. He wraps his arms around Sips in return.

“Sorry.” He whispers.

Sips leans his forehead against Ross’, mindful of his horns. “ _This is not your fault._ ” He shushes him, taking a deep breath. “Tell me that, Ross. Repeat it back to me- this was not your fault.”

“This was not my fault.” Ross says quietly.

Sips lets out the breath he’d been holding. “This was _not your fault_. Even if Smith- even if something happened, it still wouldn’t be your fault. Even if, that wouldn’t mean we weren’t enough for him. It’s _not_ all on you. _Okay?_ ”

Ross bites his lip again and nods. “Okay.”

Sips opens his eyes, blinking furtively. “Stop biting your damn lips.” He mumbles as he straightens his posture.

“Sorry.” Ross stops, and frowns, glancing away and back again. “It’s just...”

“ _What_ , Ross?” Sips asks sadly. He clears his throat.

Ross opens his mouth to speak, and closes it again. He feels so conflicted. Even though Sips has told him it’s not his fault, he feels guilty.

The gargoyle takes a deep breath and lets it out. "I promised him it'd be okay." Ross says at last, staring down at the floor.

"And it will be." Sips says, solemn. "...But sometimes there are promises we can't keep."

“That doesn’t make sense!” Ross scoffs, face twisting with emotion he can’t quite convey. He brings his hands around Sips’ back to pull him closer, and clenches his fists in the mortal king’s t-shirt.

Sips guides Ross’ head down to lean on his shoulder this time. It keeps him from having to see the pained look in Ross’ eyes and the raw emotions in his expressions.

"I don’t understand.” Ross continues. “I just... _don’t._ ”

“Sometimes...” Sips grasps for straws, voice straining on the words. “Sometimes other people make choices without us in mind.” He murmurs. “And...regardless of what those choices are, we have to make decisions of our own.”

“ _Sips..._ ”

“I’m _not_ saying he should have done anything, but- fucking hell, Ross, _it’s not your fault!_ It’s _not_ your fault. _It’s not yours, and it’s not mine, and-_ ” Sips cuts off, breathing heavily. He squeezes his eyes shut until he can’t see the dark of the living room and Ross in his arms.

“...Why?” Ross whispers. “Why did-”

Sips shushes him, petting his fingers through the short strands of Ross’ hair. “I don’t know.” He whispers brokenly in reply. "I don't know, Ross. That’s the only thing I'm sure of, is that I know nearly nothing." He chuckles bitterly and shakes his head. "Sure, I can offer my ‘wise words of wisdom’, but...advice doesn't do anything if people don't take it."

Ross shivers in his arms. “I wish I could understand.” He mumbles. “I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish...”

“I know, Ross.” Sips sighs back, holding Ross tightly. “Believe me, I know...”

They stand by the window, holding each other until the timer in the kitchen goes off.

“I should get those.” Ross whispers.

Sips nuzzles his face against Ross’ and clears his throat before speaking. “Yeah. Yeah, you should.” He says. He takes a deep breath and reluctantly pulls back, dropping his arms, and rubbing his face with a hand.

Ross looks miserable, shoulders slumped and lips downturned.

Sips turns towards the window to try to keep himself together. “Go get the muffins out of the oven, Ross.” He mumbles quietly. “If the apartment burns down, you’re going to have to deal with two disgruntled, naked water fae straight out of the bath.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.” Ross chuckles with a sad smile on his face. He moves away from Sips, and shuffles to the kitchen to complete his baking.

Sips listens to the quiet sounds of Ross puttering about. He stares at his own reflection in the window, at the lines in his face and the graying hair at his temples. He sees an old man, but when he looks into his own gray eyes he sees how young he used to be.

With a heavy sigh, the mortal king finally lets the weight of everything crash over him like a tidal wave. He leans his forehead against the window pane and closes his eyes.  
  


* * *

  


Another day, another dinner. Ross’ movements in the kitchen can be heard over the sound of the television. Smith, bleary-eyed from shitty sleep, drags his feet as he walks down the hallway. He walks past the office, where Trott is digging through a bag of things from the shop, and into the living room where Sips is. The mortal king has changed out of his work clothes and into a pair of sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt.

“‘Mornin’, Smiffy.” He jokes with a wink, popping the cap off of a fridge-frosted beer. “Sleep well?” He gives Smith’s bedraggled appearance a look-over and takes a drink.

Smith just shakes his head. He shuffles into the kitchen and looks at the clock. It’s half past seven in the evening. He feels hungry, but...not really.

Ross is standing at the counter. He dumps a large package of ground beef into a silver mixing bowl and looks up. “Hey Smith.” He smiles. “Awake at last?”

Smith grunts and leans up against the counter. He watches Ross throw handfuls and dashes of spices over the ground beef. The gargoyle adds in a sprinkle of bacon bits, and squirts a healthy amount of ketchup on top.

“What are you making?” Smith asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Meatloaf.” Ross chirps back with a smile. He measures out several handfuls of breadcrumbs and dumps that into the bowl, too.

“Right...” Smith rubs his face with his hand. He can feel the itch to hunt, to drown, starting to simmer under his skin. It’s rising fast. As the sun goes down, the clubs call for him, tempting with dark promises. The feeling doesn’t make Smith hungry now- it just makes him feel sick.

The kelpie starts to tap his fingers on the countertop, white-knuckled where his hands cling to the edge. There isn’t really a rhythm to Smith’s agitation. He watches Ross move around the kitchen getting a couple cans of green beans from the cupboard and the eggs from the fridge.

The gargoyle tries to follow Smith’s tapping with beatboxing, but gives up in lieu of teasing him with his tail. He curls it around Smith’s feet, trying to trap his ankles. Ross looks up after the fourth time that Smith pulls out of his grasp.

Smith shies away from Ross’ touch. “Don’t stab me in the toe with that thing.” He mutters, avoiding Ross’ gaze and looking down at the wrinkled hoodie and boxers he slept in.

Ross chuckles. “I won’t.” He greases up a loaf pan and sets it aside.

Smith’s nerves increase as he watches Ross crack eggs into a bowl one at a time. The bright yellow yolks slide onto the ingredient-covered beef, vibrant against the backdrop of red, green, and tan. Ross tosses the egg shells into the trash can placed on his right, and pulls the bowl closer to start mixing with his hands.

Smith stops his tapping and starts bouncing his leg instead. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders tense up from how hard he’s clinging to the counter, and forces himself to let go. Glancing distractedly about the room, he pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His right hand wraps around his keys.

“You’re grinding your teeth, Smith.” Ross speaks up, but the kelpie doesn’t acknowledge his words. The movement makes his jaw hurt, but his mind is too preoccupied with other things to stop his nervous ticks.

He’s all too close to heading for the door and driving out somewhere, and Smith can’t let himself get that chance. Not again.

Even still, his hand tightens around his keys. The metal shifts between his fingers, clinking along with the sounds of Ross’ mixing, and Smith closes his eyes. He can feel the engine beneath his feet already, taste the smog of the city on his tongue. He can hear the pounding baseline thumping in his ears, as if he’s already out on the dancefloor in some grungy club...

Smith sighs through his teeth, and reopens his eyes. He can see Ross, hands deep in meatloaf, out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look at him.

The gargoyle watches him curiously. “Are you alright?” He asks softly, continuing to fold the ingredients together until they’re well combined.

Smith says nothing. He stares hard at his sock-covered feet, white against the bland beige linoleum.

“Smith?” Ross tries again.

Smith pushes away from the counter and walks out of the room.

  


Ross frowns after Smith, watching him go. He sighs and looks back down as he forms the beef mixture into a loaf.

It was nearly every night that Smith got like this- antsy and keyed up. Ross washes his hands, puts dinner in the oven, and goes after Smith.

The green beans could wait.

Sips is still watching tv in the living room. Smith is staring out the window, looking very much like Ross does when something's bothering him.

When Ross walks over to the couch, Sips looks up, and they share a look. Ross sits down at his feet, and Sips sighs and looks over at Smith.

"Hey, Smiffy,” Sips calls. “Why don't you come here and watch some COPS with me?"

Smith says nothing. He moves away from the window and ambles around the couch, back towards the kitchen. He gives the anchor next to the wall a cursory glance, walks pointedly away from the door, and stops at the end of the hallway.

"Smith?" Sips asks.

"Hm?" Smith doesn’t turn to meet Sips’ eyes. He worries his lip between his teeth, indecisive about something.

"You going to come sit?"

Smith shakes his head. "I can't." He rocks back and forth on his heels with a heavy sigh, and fidgets with his keys in his hand. He turns around and walks back where he came, around the couch, sharply away from the door, and then towards the window. Smith stops for a moment or two, and then reverses his path back towards the kitchen and then to the hallway, pacing.

Ross and Sips track his movements with a frown.

“Come sit down, Smiffy.” Sips says.

“I _can’t_.” Smith sighs. His fingers clench around his keys, the metal jangling garishly over the sound of the tv. His pacing speeds up. His feet scuff the carpet as he treads across the living room from one side to another.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor, if you keep mimicking Trott when he’s worried.” Sips teases him.

Smith says nothing.

A few minutes later, Trott walks out of his office, tapping his hand against his thigh. “Have any of you seen my...” He trails off to watch Smith’s pacing. The kelpie is wringing one of his hands through his hair and breathing heavily.

“Smith?” Trott asks.

Smith stops in front of him for a moment. He glances up at Trott and then looks away.

"What do you need, sunshine?" The selkie asks worriedly.

“Nothing.” Smith turns and paces back towards the window.

"We just want to help." Ross pipes up from the foot of the couch.

Sips reaches out to catch Smith’s arm as he passes by, but Smith bats him away.

"It's..." Smith sighs heavily, shaking his head as he stops by the window again. "You can’t. I can’t. I can't sit still, I can't just..." He trails off.

“Just what?” Trott asks gently.

"I need to get out of it, out of this."

"Out of what?"

" _Out of my head._ I can't think about anything else except-" Smith cuts off and grinds his teeth. “All it is, is- it’s just-” He stops talking, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head against the window with a dull thunk.

“What, Smith?” Trott asks. He moves a little closer, standing in front of the tv that no one’s been watching for several minutes.

“Nothing.” Smith mutters. “It’s nothing.” He starts pacing again, this time walking up and down the length of the wall that the window is on.

“It’s not fucking nothing, or you wouldn’t be acting like this.” Trott replies.

“Just forget it.”

“No.” Trott tuts. “I’m not going to just-”

“Fucking forget it, Trott! _Forget it!_ ” Smith snaps. “Forget I said anything. Just ignore me.”

“We’re not going to ignore you, Smith.” Sips speaks up. _Kind of hard not to, when you’re like this._

“Why not, you do it already!”

The mortal king sighs.

“That’s not true...” Ross mumbles. “Smith...you know that’s not true, right?” His tail swishes back and forth, catching on the carpet. Smith’s restless state always makes him feel uneasy.

Smith continues pacing, wringing his hands in his hair. “I...I know. I know that, but...I jus-t.” His words cut off and he purses his lips together in a tight line.

They wait patiently, until Smith takes several deep breaths instead of heavy, panicked ones.

“Since that night, I feel like all of this is smothering me.” He says quietly. “Your attention, it’s too much sometimes. I don’t know how to deal with this. I can’t sit still- _I can’t._ ”

The tv on in the background helps him get the words out, making him feel like his court’s focus isn’t entirely on him.

“I can’t fucking stand this.” Smith whispers brokenly. “I can’t _fucking_ stand this, and I don't want to fail again...”

“What do you want us to do?” Ross asks.

“I don’t know. Nothing. I just- there’s-” Smith lets out a shaky sigh. “There’s nothing. Nothing makes it go away. I can’t- _focus, I can’t- it’s all-_ ” He lets out an aggravated snarl.

Trott hums, thinking on his feet. The selkie goes to the linen closet in the hall, where they keep towels and spare blankets. He stretches up on his tip-toes to reach the very back of the top shelf, and when he finds what he’s looking for, he returns. Before Smith can protest, Trott crosses the room and flings the garment over-top his head.

Sock-covered feet come to a standstill mid-pace. “What...?” Smith’s hand reaches out and feels the fabric draped over him like an army-green ghost. It’s thick and woolen, and piling on the edges. “My old blanket? You kept it...”

“Yeah, of course I did.” Trott murmurs with a smile. “It’s yours, sunshine, I wouldn’t get rid of it.”

Smith says nothing for a moment, brushing his trembling fingertips over the cloth. It’s been a long time since he’s seen this...

Trott sits down on the arm of the couch. “I forgot it was even in the closet, to be honest. Otherwise I would have given it back earlier and put it with the others on our bed. It’s probably dusty from sitting up on a shelf for thirty years, but it’s clean.”

Smith chuckles. He’s right, it is dusty and smells a bit like moss and mold. But it smells like home.

“I thought we lost it in the move.” Smith says. He tugs the blanket down off his head, hair in disarray as he settles the edges of the fabric around his shoulders like a cape.

His court is watching him expectantly.

Smith drops his gaze and adjusts his grip on the blanket clutched at the level of his heart. “Sorry.” He mutters.

Trott chuckles quietly. “You don’t need to apologize, sunshine.”

The kelpie ruffles his hair with his off hand. The woolen fabric of his blanket has a subtle weight to it. It feels like the hands of his court where it rests on his shoulders, without the pressure of being physically intimate. If they wanted to comfort him right now, he would collapse under the feeling of attention he doesn’t think he deserves.

The itch to drown isn’t dampened so much as it isn’t at the forefront of his mind anymore. If he thinks about it, it’ll rear it’s head, but at the moment his thoughts are of his court.

Smith takes the time to breathe, slow and deep. He waits until his heart rate is mostly back to normal before he looks up and meets their eyes at last. “Can we...talk?” He asks, gesturing to the couch.

Trott gives him a warm smile. “Of course we can.”

It was uncommon for Smith to talk about his feelings, but he felt assured. He would be heard, and he could voice everything. If he didn’t get it all out now, he didn’t think he ever would.

The kelpie sat down between them on the couch, closed his eyes, and just...talked. About how he felt, about his fears, about the past, about his mistakes. About the kills he made over the previous months.

Smith felt like he was babbling the entire time, despite his court listening without interrupting. Sometimes his sentences didn’t make much sense, just an endless stream of choppy curses and agitated remarks. His chest swelled with the pressure of the words, and he would stutter and almost stop. But then Sips’ fingers would brush his arm, or Trott’s leg would press closer, or Ross’ tail would coil around his ankle.

It kept him talking, until he was all talked out.

In the end, the itch to drown tempted Smith the same, but he felt like trying to fight it wasn’t so hopeless as before.

“How can we help?” The first question came from Ross. The gargoyle was always eager to be useful.

“I don’t know.” Smith admits, blinking his eyes open. He wraps his fingers around Ross’ tail, and stares down at the swirls in the blue glass. _Just don’t let me go._

“What do you need?” The next question was from Trott. He would do anything for him and their court.

“I don’t know.” Smith repeats, looking up and meeting his eyes. _Only you, I hope._

“Is dinner ready?” Fucking _Sips._

Smith can’t keep the smirk from his face. “I don’t know.” He says again, smiling.

“Dammit, Sips, what is it with you and food?”

“You love food as much as the rest of us, Ross. And I’m fucking hungry!”

Ross gets up, grumbling, and goes to the kitchen to check up on the food. Trott sighs heavily and follows behind, shaking his head.

Smith leans back into the couch, and feels the mortal king’s fingers entwine with his.

Smith looks up at Sips with a wry, hopeful smirk.

Sips smiles back. He throws his other arm over the back of the couch, and tunes back into the tv that had been playing all this time.

What Sips really said was, _“We’re right here with you through it all. For as long as these feelings last, and after they go.”_

Smith looks down at their hands between them and smiles softly.

 _“You’re not in this alone.”_  
  


* * *

  


“Strike a pose, Smith.”

Smith flips Ross off, and the gargoyle laughs and snaps the picture. The click-whirr of the camera shutter echoes in the empty dance-studio.

Smith shakes his head and pulls his leather jacket a little tighter around himself. Rain had come through the city last night, clearing and cooling the air. Fog billowed in the streets that morning, and later on in the day Ross and Smith went exploring.

Not too far, just to a foreclosed strip mall a stone's throw from the apartment. Trott had wanted them to check it out and see if it would be any use to them. They already looked through a hair salon, and a clothing boutique for older women, and neither seemed worth the space. The dance-studio they were in wasn’t either, but Ross had thought it was aesthetically interesting.

Smith watches Ross as the gargoyle messes with his camera. Sips found it at the bowling alley he frequented. After a month, no one had claimed it from the lost and found, so he gave it to Ross.

It was just another artsy thing for Ross to get into, but he enjoyed it. Trott figured they were lucky the camera was digital and not actual film. The space between the window and the tv in their living room was populated enough by Ross’ sketchbooks and tiny figurines- they didn’t need a personal darkroom set up in the corner, or pans of developing chemicals sitting around threatening to be spilled.

Ross’ baseball bat sticks up behind his shoulder, tucked between the camera strap and his back. It’s insurance should they come across trouble, but right now Smith doesn’t feel anxious. Just melancholy.

The kelpie turns from Ross and walks along the room. The dance-studio’s wall of mirrors had been smashed by previous explorers. Broken glass litters the floor, crunching under Smith’s boots as he walks.

He steps up to the far wall, inches away from the shattered mirror, and stares at his fractured reflection in the glass. “Sometimes I wonder...” He murmurs to himself.

“What?” Ross asks.

Smith shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He thinks the shattered glass looks better than it might have before. It’s somewhat pretty, the way the pieces fan out from small to large where the mirror had been hit.

Smith touches a large fractured piece with his fingertips. He’s careful not to cut his hand on the glass as he follows the cracks along the wall. The smaller pieces distort his reflection, until his double doesn’t look like anything recognizable.

Smith can’t help but feel akin to it in some way.

“I don't really know who I am anymore.” He mutters. The kelpie sighs and stares at the broken glass.

The stillness of the room is interrupted as Ross walks over to him, grinding mirror pieces into dust with each step.

“You what?” Ross asks, nearing his side.

“I don’t know.” Smith shrugs. “Who am I?”

There’s a pause, filled only by the sound of Ross shuffling closer.

“Smith.” Ross says.

Smith turns to look at him. “What?”

“You're Smith.” He says. And he leans in and kisses him.

 _"Kissing me isn't going to make this better."_ Smith wants to tell him. But Ross' lips move with his so smoothly. He kisses him as if the moniker is enough.

 _It's not that simple, Ross._ Smith thinks.

He wants to tell him the kissing doesn't help. But...it certainly doesn't hurt.

Smith kisses him back, thinking hard about what it means, to take a name, to keep one form. Throughout Smith's life he's straddled the line between horse and human. Ross has remained the same being for centuries.

How would a gargoyle know any different? Ross did change, when he joined their court, but only in outward appearance. He learned a lot, but he was still the same gargoyle.

When Ross pulls away, he traces Smith's lips with his thumb. “You're Smith.” He says, smiling at him softly. “You’re a kelpie. You just don't fuck-murder people like you used to.”

 _Trying not to._ Smith amends internally. _I’m not so sure I can say I don’t, when it’s a constant battle to be better than I was before._

“That's not much of a difference, if you think about it.” He says to Ross. “We still fight people on the streets occasionally, cause mayhem, break things, and set fires.”

“Controlled chaos.” Ross replies with an impish grin. “Completely different.”

Smith snorts. He smiles back, but it soon falls. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He sighs heavily. “You remember the party we had when I couldn't remember my nights...” He says, shifting his feet and shuffling the broken glass on the floor.

“What about it?” Ross asks slowly.

Smith winces. “Well, my control was about as effective then as it is now.”

The gargoyle frowns heavily. “It’s really that bad?” He asks.

Smith nods. “I've been drowning people for so long, that I never stopped to think about what the magic does to me. That's why it's been so hard to get over...

“My magic is as wild as the coursing river. I always thought I controlled it, but now, I don't know. I think it might have had control over me. I don't know what to think about it. The river is as much a part of me as my magic is.”

Smith nudges mirror pieces with the toe of his boot and continues talking.

“The fuck murdering thing...it's tied to me being a kelpie. That's just what I am, and I don't know how to be a kelpie that doesn't kill.” He admits. “If I don't drown my victims...I'm just some person who can shapeshift into a water horse.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Ross adds in.

“No.” Smith sighs. “No, there's not.” He looks over the broken shards upon the floor, and carefully picks up a piece. Smith catches a snippet of his self reflected back. Auburn hair. A bright smile on a round face. Moss green eyes, and long eyelashes.

He doesn’t have to look like this. He can look different if he wanted- comes with the perks of being a shapeshifting fae. But Smith’s spent a long time in this mortal form. He met Trott, and Ross, and Sips looking like this.

It doesn’t matter, but it does.

With a sigh, Smith lets the mirror shard fall back to the ground.

“Sometimes I don’t feel like myself.” He says, looking up at Ross. “I feel so...fake.”

Ross bites his lips. “Well, you're _not_ you, in a way. Because the self-doubt isn't you, either.”

Smith nods. “I used to be so self assured. I don’t know what happened to that.”

Ross watches Smith calmly, looking at their broken reflections. "Why not do it over?" He asks.

"Do what over?"

"Your memories."

Smith raises an eyebrow

"Like...you had sex in a shower and did pole dancing.” Ross says, tapping his tail against the ground in thought. “You could re-do that, and replace it with better memories instead of the ones of you fuck-drowning people."

"Replace the deaths with better memories..." Smith blinks at him for a moment. "You really think that would work?"

The gargoyle shrugs. "If it might help, it's worth a shot. Isn't it?"

Smith nods slowly and turns away. He looks across the room at the wreckage someone else has made.

Ross’ words have got him thinking. If he could repeat the things he’s done without the fuck-murdering and drowning...he could focus on the new memories instead of the past decisions he’s made.

Smith has no idea if it’ll work. But he supposes it’s all about intent- if he intends to make something better out of something that had once been terrible, it’s worth a chance.  
The odds are stacked against him, but maybe, just maybe, it might be enough to change.

“I think I’m done here.” Smith says, looking away from the broken mirrors and facing Ross once more. Millions of reflections repeat his movement, looking in the same direction in synchronization.

Millions of possibilities...but did they all have the same outcome?

“All done?” Ross asks, fiddling with his camera.

Smith nods and gives him a small smile. “Yeah. On to the next.”  
  


* * *

  


Life goes on; days cycle.

Some days are better. Some days are worse.

Sometimes Smith eats but he doesn't taste it- every little bite feels like too much. He doesn't need it, doesn't want it, doesn't care about it.

Sometimes sleep is fitful, or else he's up all night, stuck listening to the silence of the room. His court beside him dreams things he doesn't believe in, and Smith is left with repeating his mistakes like a broken record. Thinking and rethinking, berating himself stupid.

Redoing memories, as Ross suggested, helps. But it feels like reopening old wounds when he does. He doesn’t want to relive his darkest nights- he hates revisiting places where he knew he’s done wrong. Redoing things helps, but it hurts.

Other times, he feels like he’ll never be whole again, that he’s too broken this time to be put back together. Trott tells him lost pieces don’t matter. He tells him that they don’t have to fit the same way they did before.

Smith knows that he doesn’t have to feel whole to be loved, but sometimes it’s so hard to believe.

There are days in which it's hard; there are days in which he can't do anything right no matter how much he tries. And sometimes there are days in which nothing seems wrong at all. Sometimes there are days in which he’s fine.

Smith keeps on, regardless. He keeps on for the few and sometimes far between days that aren't so bad. His court stands beside him, no matter how undeserving he feels of their affections. No matter how many times the feelings get the best of him- he keeps on.

He'd rather make something out of what he has, no matter how many good days he gets. No matter if the luck’s run out or not. He’ll take everything he can get. At the very least, he keeps moving.

It's not easy, not by any means.

But it's better than nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://bathss.tumblr.com/post/110592901452/mbti-aesthetics-e-n-t-p-9-entps-are  
> Smith (to be or not) cw: fire
> 
> http://8bitfiction.com/post/131270521703  
> i'm fine (smith arson)
> 
> http://bonfire-butterfly-.tumblr.com/post/123674792879  
> desolation, (n), a state of complete emptiness or destruction. Smith
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/133289562071/shakespears-i-think-theres-a-flaw-in-my-code  
> low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline
> 
> http://anthony-samaniego.tumblr.com/post/128206362212/marbled-sky-instagram  
> http://triatic.tumblr.com/post/130349990039/aesthetic-blog  
> http://fractalacidfairy.tumblr.com/post/109538217927  
> sunsets
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/129044290988  
> I hope you make peace with your pain and never lose your flames
> 
> http://arthetic.tumblr.com/post/105184091309/ignas-krunglevi%C4%8Dius  
> "I want you to tell me what was troubling you so much." "NO."
> 
> http://deseptions.tumblr.com/post/129560750089  
> i'm so tired of being tired
> 
> http://shakespears.tumblr.com/post/128127907530/so-wont-you-take-a-breath-and-dive-in-deep-cause  
> cause I've done some things that I can't speak  
> and I've tried to wash you away but you just won't leave
> 
> https://sanaakosirickylee.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/broken-mirror.jpg
> 
> http://whispers-of-the-rain.tumblr.com/post/116229794630/little-reminders
> 
> This fic has a lot of things about freedom and control, choice and the inevitable.  
> Smith's fear is losing his freedom, because it's tied to who he is. He fears that he no longer has the ability to choose- if he is not able to choose whether he kills or not, what is he? What control does he have? Is he truly ever free from the worst parts of himself?  
> Trott's fear is losing his control, because he thrives on knowledge and finite answers. He fears that by losing control, he can't fix things- if he cannot control the outcome, he cannot do anything. How can he keep those he loves safe? What does that say about himself, when he can’t?  
> Sometimes in life, we can choose what happens. But there are some things we cannot choose, and there are some things we cannot change. There are some things we cannot fight. There are questions we don't know the answer to. And there is always inevitability.  
> But there is also always hope, and there is always a future. There is always something, whatever that may be.
> 
> If you’d like to read some of my extended thoughts on this fic, check out the blog post here:  
> https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/12/11/other-thoughts-on-to-be-or-not-to-be-an-extended-authors-note/
> 
> Don’t forget, you can leave comments there too, anonymously or not. I’m always happy to talk about things more in-depth, either on the wordpress blog or on a03 itself.  
> Thank you very, very much for taking the time to read, kudos, comment, bookmark, etc. It means so much.


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